


Feathers - An Elsewhere University Tale

by Runwildwithme (NectarinesAndSourThings)



Series: Tales from the Else [1]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Crows, Deals, Fairies, Folklore, Names, POV Second Person, The Fae, True Names, the Fair Folk, the librarians are a host unto themselves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NectarinesAndSourThings/pseuds/Runwildwithme
Summary: Your first day enrolled at Elsewhere was a Tuesday. It was nearly five o'clock, the sun was just going down, and you couldhearthings. You'd turned, wide-eyed, pale-faced, to your RA, Jenna, who had rolled her too-bright eyes and said ‘It's Tuesday,’ and was so entirely unconcerned you had had to believe there was nothing to be concerned about.Spoiler: there are lots of things to be concerned about at Elsewhere U.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Elsewhere University](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/267038) by CharminglyAntiquated. 



> Like a whole bunch of other people, I saw charminglyantiquated ’s Elsewhere University Comic on tumblr and got SUPER INSPIRED. And since she’s so generously encouraging other people to play in her sandbox, I present ‘Feathers’.

You go to Elsewhere University. You've been going to Elsewhere University for (years and years and years and years) for three years now. You know how things are. You're not an RA, but... Mm, you could have been. 

Might still be. Aren't yet. 

This is your junior year (you think). You know how things are. You carry salt in one pocket, iron in another, trinkets to bargain away in your book bag, offerings in your purse, pearls around your neck. 

(Pearls have no great stories attached to them that you know of, but your great grandmother wore pearls. Both your grandmothers wear pearls. Your mother wears pearls. Your aunts, your cousins, your sister, your niece. All the women in your family wear pearls.) 

(Sometimes, when you go home, you think the only reason your family recognizes you is because you wear pearls.)

(Belief has its own sort of power, here. If you ever find yourself bargaining your pearls, you know you might just be bargaining bits of yourself.)

In your purse, you carry seeds, and nuts, and sweets, bits of bacon, squares of butter, packets of honey, of pepper (not salt!! Those go in your back pocket) (pepper is actually quite valuable to the Week Folk- it's hard to get, for them, because it's usually kept so close to the salt), of cream cheese, single serve tubs of creamer (in at least three flavors, ever since your first summer solstice). Your dorm raids the dining commons for condiments every Tuesday.

Tuesday's are good for raids. Good for quests and adventures, too, but only if they're small. It's impossible for things to go too terribly wrong on Tuesdays. 

(Your first day enrolled at Elsewhere was a Tuesday. It was nearly five o'clock, the sun was just going down, and you could _hear_ things. You'd turned, wide-eyed, pale-faced, to your RA, Jenna, who had rolled her too-bright eyes and said ‘It's Tuesday,’ and was so entirely unconcerned you had had to believe there was nothing to be concerned about.)

(Of course, a year later you'd found out that the real Jenna had been Away for over four years, whatever was wearing her face wasn't really her, and that Jenna wasn't even supposed to be an RA, to say nothing of whatever had replaced her. By then, though, The Tuesday Thing was a firm part of your dorm’s understanding of How Things Work Around Here, and thus had become true-if only for the girls in your dorm- even if it hadn't been before.)

(You still wear your bra inside-out on raids. It _hurts_ to wear your bras like this, underwire and straps biting into your skin, but there is power in sacrifice, and for all you wander, on Tuesdays you're hardly ever lost.)

...You also carry around the Complete Collection of Emily Dickinson's Poetry, but that's as much for you as it is for the crows. 

The crows here like poetry, and even some music. Not metal, and not country, but folk, bluegrass, sure. Melancholy songs, or songs for battle. Lots of instruments with a single voice rising clear above. Your tastes mostly overlap, which is why you know this. They still like poetry best, but you've charmed at least three with an only slightly off-key rendition of ‘I'll follow you into the dark’. 

You’ve named one crow (it allowed you to name it, more like, and the both of you know it) Barnes on account of it shows up- every time and without fail- whenever you hum along to ‘Glitter and Gold’. 

You're walking to the library, now, and Barnes is on your shoulder, bopping along and clacking its beak as you croon the lyrics. Barnes keeps impeccable time, you've found. 

(You've told Barnes this, and had to catch it when it fell from the branch, _CRAWCAWCAW __-ing its awful laugh at your pun.) (you woke up the next morning to feathers on your pillow. One good turn deserves another, and two years on you still wear them in you hair.)_

‘Corvus!’ Not-Jenna calls out, and she means you. Corvus isn't your real name, of course not, but then again, Not-Jenna isn't Not-Jenna’s real name either. Real names, first names, True Names aren't things you share around here. Here, most people call you Corvus. To some, you're Crow Girl, to others, you're Feathers. To those of the Court, you are called Girl Who Sings to Crows. 

(You'd found yourself at a revel, last winter (these things happen) and had indeed been reveling (as was polite), when a hand (talon?) had caught your jaw. It tilted your chin up, and you looked up and up and up to black empty eyes set in skin the color you don't have words for, framed by hair that looked like the sound of feathers rustling. It laughed at your terror- rough, cracked laughter from a too-pretty throat- and asked you Girl Who Sings to Crows, will you sing to me? No fool you, you asked what a song was worth. A gift is a debt, and you want no debt between a member of the Court and yourself. It answered. You sang.)

(the next morning, you woke, safe in your bed, no memory past the first note to leave your lips, pearls still hanging ‘round your neck, and a second strand of pearls- black and grey and blue and so, so glossy (like feathers)- clutched inside your clenched fist, and you know each pearl is a song, is a favor, should you ever be brave enough to call one in) (you wear them tied around your left wrist, and it is as much a declaration as you are capable of making) 

You slow down and wait for Not-Jenna to catch up. Every now and then, you wonder what she really is. You could find out, you suppose. There's a girl called Cat-Eyes from dorm three that sells special sunglasses. Cat-Eyes’ glasses are for seeing the truth of things, but you can't ever unknow a truth. Maybe you'll look past Not-Jenna’s glamours when you leave Elsewhere, but for now you still have to live with her. Bliss and ignorance and all that. 

‘Good morning, Not-Jenna. How’d that test go?’

(Not-Jenna likes being called Not-Jenna. She told you that it helped remind her who she was, who she was pretending to be. You figure Not-Jenna’s ‘not’ is similar to your pearls. You didn't tell her about your pearls, but from the way she looks at them sometimes you think she already knows.)

‘Oh, just horribly. It’s a good thing the professor offers extra credit, let me tell you!’

You're pretty sure Not-Jenna isn't actually enrolled in any classes, because she never give specifics. It's always ‘a paper’, ‘the test next week’, ‘that one professor’. In fact, you've put money down that she just randomly shows up to take test and hand papers in to various classes and professors. Gambling aside, Not-Jenna is very good at pretending to be a person. 

You hm, and offer, ‘Wanna study with me and Barnes?’

She and Barnes eye each other. 

‘Psychology?’ Not-Jenna queries, and you hum. 

Barnes croaks ‘Stanford Prison’ at her, and Not-Jenna’s eyes light up. (More than usual, you mean). Not-Jenna has always liked hearing about the atrocities humans perpetuate upon each other. 

‘You've got that test in two weeks, Corvus, don't you?’ She asks, considering. 

‘And a quiz this Tuesday,’ you tell her. Not-Jenna nods, decided. 

The librarian makes the ‘I'm watching you’ gesture at Barnes as the three of you head up to the third floor study rooms, and it fluffs its tail feathers at him. 

 

\----

You go home for spring break. Your family waits for you past security, all warmth and smiles. Your mother sees you just fine (well, she looks at your neck before she looks you in the eye, but that's normal, now, and it's not like your friends at Elsewhere don't do the same), but your sister’s eyes catch and hold on the feathers in your hair. 

Her brow is furrowed, and she reaches out to push a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

‘Did you dye your hair?’ she asks, ‘it looks darker now.’

‘Too much time spent studying indoors, Sis, that's all.’ You tell her, and she nods, still confused but willing to accept the lie, and her eyes slide off your feathers. 

Your father slings a heavy arm around your shoulders, his eyes bright and jovial (normal human bright, you mean. After Not-Jenna, even in your mind you find yourself clarifying ‘bright eyes’) as he laughs. 

‘My little girl, growing up at college. Studying inside!’ He laughs. It's a normal human laugh, nothing rough or croaking about it. ‘That place sure is changing you!’

You laugh along, smiling with him. You boarded the plane, went through the metal detectors, all of security just fine. You can still wear your metal earrings. You can still lie. 

Walking out to the car, you trip, fall behind. 

Your sister calls out, ‘C’mon, Feathers, keep up!’ and you heart stops. Your family, your blood kin, these, of all people, these people should know your Name. They shouldn't know to call you otherwise. 

‘What did you call me?’ You ask, intent. (this is against the rules. you don't call attention to things like this, not at Elsewhere. but you're not _at_ Elsewhere, and yet the pearls looped around your left wrist, when they _clack-clack-clack_ together it sounds like _caw-caw-caw_. it sounds like laughter)

‘What are you talking about? I called you by your name.’

You can _hear_ the lack of capitalization. 

\---

Spring Break passes slowly, so slowly, and every relative, every friend, calls you by the nicknames you've picked up at Elsewhere. If you were smart, you'd never go back, let the feyness you’ve picked up be rubbed away by steel, by silver, by iron, by the constant hum of electricity trapped in wires all through the city. 

Instead, you drive an hour out of the city to the closest stable, shake hands with the farrier, and trade him your recipe for lavender lemonade for every single nail he pulls from the hooves of the horses he works on. He’d have given them to you, and even offers the horseshoes he can't reuse, but you’ve been at Elsewhere long enough that accepting a gift makes you uncomfortable, and horseshoes can be tricky. (Horseshoes have luck in them, good and bad, and you have to be careful to pull out only the good luck when you bring them home. Maybe you'll give it a try later.)

Instead, you go to the ocean, and bring home buckets and buckets and buckets of water. They yield a paltry palmful of salt, but it is sea salt you harvested yourself, and all the stronger for it. You carry it in a squat little bottle, draped from your neck by a leather thong. 

Instead, you pluck careful handfuls of flowers from the garden you started with your mother your first weekend back from Elsewhere, and crush the petals against your skin, scrape dirt under your nails.

Instead, your mother takes you to visit a different relative each day, and each one presses a small pouch into her hands as you leave. You wonder, but you don't ask. It's not for you to know just yet. 

Instead, you wait underneath a roosting tree for hours into the night, and when a crow feather falls you pluck it from the ground and tie it into your hair, leave a handful of grains where it fell. 

Instead, as you say goodbye outside of the airport, your mother drapes a delicate silver chain around your waist. Solitary earrings, half a bracelet, the charm from a necklace, mutilated rings, none of them whole, all hang from it. All have pearls. 

She tells you, ‘for bargaining, when They ask for pieces of you.’

She tells you, ‘be brave, be clever, be quick,’ 

She doesn’t tell you to be safe.

You don't promise to come back. 

(For all that you belong here, have the dirt and salt and scent and feathers to prove it, for all that, Elsewhere has a hold of you now. Time to see which hold is stronger.)


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Return to Elsewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Here's part two. This has already gone up on tumblr, as has part three, which I'll post over here in the next day or so. Thank y'all so much for all the kudos and comments!!! :D

You go through security, board the plane. None of the metals pull at your bones. Just to see if you can, you spin fanciful lies about yourself as you make conversation with your seat mate.

 

(The words want to stick in your throat, but you're mostly sure that's from years (and years and years) of choosing your words ever so carefully with strangers, and not for any less ... _mundane_ a reason.)

You leave the airport, head straight to the train station. While you wait for your train car to board, you catch the eyes of others who are bound for Elsewhere. It's not many of you that are Involved, fae-touched, not really, but the ones that are gaze at your crow pearls, your salt, your belt of silvered chain. You ponder the charms you see on bracelets, the envelopes of seeds you can see poking out of a bag, the new tattoos of things abstract and old, the iron hanging from ears and necks and noses.

You wonder if what you're looking at is armor, or if it's arms.

Not-Jenna is waiting for you when you get to Elsewhere. You both make all the right noises, ‘how are you’ and ‘how was your break’, asked and answered. For all that she's happy to see you, her bright eyes are grim, and she hurries you deeper into the grounds as soon as the crowd of returning students starts to dissipate.

As you go, you see Cat-Eyes following a meandering pair of tabbies off the path (never wise, that, but then Cat Eyes sells glasses for true-seeing, and has for a while now. She's got the protection of something, given her continued ownership of her own eyes), three of the football players walking away, each arm in arm with one of _those_ cheerleaders, the girl who works at the bakery being herded away by her boss.

(this is breaking the rules. Not-Jenna is very good at pretending to be human, but she is nonetheless pretending. She has never been waiting to welcome you back to Elsewhere before. Honestly, you're not sure she's ever noticed your leaving, in the past. None of the Gentry do, usually, and yet the most fae-touched of your year are being quietly separated. From the looks of things, either someone has offended the Court so severely that a Wild Hunt is being called and favored mortals are being hidden away, or the rules are changing.)

(The last time the rules changed, the story goes, a professor was taken, the chemistry department revolted, and the students went Underhill to steal back their stolen professor. Blood was spilled, people died, the gentry learned new ways to fear iron, people learned new ways to fear. The Court and the Chem majors stay away from each other now.)

(If the Wild Hunt rides tonight, many, many people will die, and it will be a long, long time before the bloodstains fade. If the rules are changing, it will be longer.)

Not-Jenna’s hand is cool in yours, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's not worried. Sometimes she forgets to sweat, _especially_ when she's worried.

You ask, quietly, ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere safe,’ she says, just as softly.

After a beat, you offer, ‘The dormitory?’, but her lips just tighten against her jaw. You look away before you can see the outline of her teeth.

You walk like that, hand in hand and silent, for a long time. Your feet hurt, and then they don't. The edges of the path are beginning to blur, and your thoughts are slow.

Idly, you feel flattered. You know Not-Jenna likes you, but this is less amusement at a pet and more concern for a friend. A smile stretches across your face. She's _so_ good at playing human. You never thought you'd be so happy to be taken.

She stops to pinch your smile back onto your face. Ha! Your smile, stretching, it’s _funny_ -

‘Keep it together, Corvus,’ she says, and the sound of her voice in the silence is enough to jolt you back to yourself, at least a little.

You breath in deeply, and don't move when she tugs at your hand. You start to look around, but wherever Not-Jenna wants you, you’re not there yet. The inbetween-place hurt to look at, so you look at Not-Jenna instead. She tugs again.

‘Wait, I don't...’ you trail off. Her eyes are so bright.

‘C’mon, Corvus, we have to keep going. It's not safe yet.’

It's hard to think.

‘I'm ...I'm not safe.’ You tell her, and she nods.

‘That's right, it's not safe. That's why we have to keep going.’

You try the words out in your mouth. ‘If we keep going, we’ll be safe?’

Even as Not-Jenna hesitates, you know the words for a lie. You're never _safe_ in Elsewhere. Your thoughts realign.

‘I'm not safe.’ You tell her.

She nods, frantically, but she's misunderstanding.

You look her in the (bright, so bright) eyes. You tell her, a third time, with _intent_.

_‘I'm not safe.’_

And you can _feel_ Not-Jenna become aware of the pearls, the salt at your throat, the dirt under your nails, the crow feather you brought from outside, the chain draped around your waist.

She stills, balance of power upset.  Her sudden wariness is exquisite. She's brought you to the inbetween place. The rules are different.

She tries one last, third time.

‘Corvus, please,’ she says, plaintive, but Corvus is not your Name, and she’s plucked at the attention of something else by saying it.

There is the sound of wings, and the sudden arrival of something much stronger than Not-Jenna lends solidity to your surrounds (pulls solidity out of you? something like that) and suddenly you're back (still?) in Elsewhere, just a few steps off the path.

Not-Jenna shrieks, angry, foiled, frustrated, but affects calm when whatever Court Fae is watching flexes its presence at her.  She takes a deep breath. As much as she likes you, the crows staked their claim on you first.

(You know, in your heart, Not-Jenna will never call you Corvus again. She lost the right to call you that. From now on, it will always be Feathers.)(you don't know who won the right.)( _black gray blue silver, glossy feathers_ \- you have an idea)

‘Change of plans!’ She chirps, cheerful and bright once more. ‘This way,’ she says, tugging you back the way you came. ‘You should see this.’

You pull your hand from hers, but follow readily enough. She has her back to you, and crows perch, watching, in all the trees around you.

The pearls on your wrist rattle, rattle, rattle.

\---

Not-Jenna leads you to the heart of the campus, and you see what Not-Jenna meant.

There’s been a theft.

\---

The thing about Elsewhere University is that all the paperwork for enrollments, transfers, matriculations, transcripts, all the student records are kept in hard copy in the Administrative Building.

There is, you've been told, remarkably little paperwork, compared to other institutions of higher learning. A student's full name appears maybe four times, at most, in their entire record. Everything else is filed by student ID number, and even those are guarded jealously.

The Administrative Building is a terrifying beast of a building, strangely Gothic in architecture, wrapped up in wrought-iron fencing, the tiled floors and ceiling glinting with flecks of strange metals. The inside of the building is always humid: speckled throughout its well-lit halls are numerous water features- most of which stand guard outside doorways, precisely three of which trickle across the floor. Grains of salt spill across the main lobby, bowls of saltwater are left on cabinets, tables, by door jams in twisted parody of the customary offerings.

(There was an attempt to install computers in the administrative building, once. _Only_ the once.)

(The Gentry cannot use computers, is the thing. It would have shifted the balance of things just a tad too much. You heard an Administrator tell an RA once: ‘The castle may be guarded with whatever trials and traps we humans can think up, but there must _actually_ be a princess in the castle. There must be at least an _illusion_ of fair play.’)

(‘An illusion of fair play’ is a pretty great way to describe the general attitude of the Gentry. An illusion only, and whatever beyond is what you win on your own merits.)

\---

The Administrative Building is a husk of itself, when you come upon it.  It has been broken, breached, defiled. No longer a haven born of old world traditions and human ingenuity.

You are not the first to arrive.

One of the football players is standing on the steps in front of the building. His jersey is all torn up. He's got kiss-swollen lips, red and purple marks all along his neck, and claw marks- still bleeding - up and down one arm, as if something with claws hadn’t wanted to let him go. You think his teammates were probably not so lucky.

You pull your pill bottle from your purse, offer him two Tylenol.

When he hesitates, you tell him ‘freely given.’ Only then does he take take them.

You can see him start to thank you, and then stop.

‘I appreciate it,’ he says, instead.

(You carefully do not think _Smart_ and _lucky- one to watch_ because that is a very fae thought to think.)

You take two, yourself. The time you spent in the in between place has left you feeling like you've been reading too long in poor light, and the commiserating grimace you share with the football player at the taste of the pills is comforting in its humanity.

Cat-Eyes arrives then, unhurried, completely unruffled, still escorted by the two tabby cats. She definitely has something watching out for her. You wonder what the price is. (You know you'll never ask.)

The three of you (six, counting Not-Jenna and the cats, many more counting crows) stand waiting in silent agreement, until it becomes apparent neither the baker nor the other athletes are going to make it.

The football player that did breaks the silence first.

‘Those girls...’ he chokes up.

Oh jeez. The kid’s a freshman.

‘Yeah, those weren't human,’ Cat-Eyes huffs.  ‘The teeth on those things are gnarly.’ She lets that stand in the air a moment, then asks, considering, ‘You see what happened to your team mates?’

He shakes his head.

‘That's probably for the best,’ you tell him.

He shakes his head, and just sort of breathes his confession out:

‘I just _left_ them.’

‘If you hadn’t, you'd have never gotten away,’ Not-Jenna tells him, ever cheerful, and he whirls, as if only just now seeing her. Which is possible.

He starts to say something, stops. Tries again. The rest of you are content to watch him struggle with it. Fae-touched, all of you.

Finally, he asks, ‘Why are we here?’

‘You already know the answer to that,’ you tell him. ‘You’ve lasted this long, and you got away. You might not have believed the stories, but you still saw what shouldn't be seen, and you still have eyes because you followed the rules. It's why you didn't want to take the tylenol from me until I told you there'd be no debt. You already know.’ The time for grief, for weakness, is passing, if it ever occurs at Elsewhere at all.

He looks at you. Answers his own question.

‘They stole our Names, didn't they?’

Not-Jenna nods. Cat-Eyes lets out a long, slow whistle, like when bombs drop.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘We’re all fucked.’

‘Well...’

Cat-Eyes orients to you, all sharp corners. ‘What do you mean, ‘well’?’

You hum a single note, reach up to stroke Barnes’ head when he wings down to land on your shoulder from a nearby tree.

‘Well. It is Tuesday.’

Not-Jenna laughs, loud, pealing, _disrespectful_.

‘Tuesday's are the best days for raids.’ She starts.

‘And adventures, as long as they're small.’ You pipe in.

‘...Nothing can go too terribly wrong on a Tuesday.’ Cat-Eyes finishes, in the tone of someone quoting something long heard that only now makes sense.  

‘But... our Names.. that's not small, is it?’ Football player asks, and it's clear he wants to believe you, wants to be convinced.

‘We’ll only be stealing what's already been stolen,’ Not-Jenna tells him, kind and smiling. He smiles back, a little bit.

‘Nothing terribly big about that at all,’ you tell him.

Cat-Eyes laughs then, convinced herself. ‘Stealing back what's stolen. Fuck me, and there's precedent! You Dorm 5 girls always were crazy.’

She turn towards the football player.

‘So, what do we call you?’

He pulls the remains of his jersey off, runs a couple fingers over what's left of his number, lets it fall to the ground. He straightens up.

‘Call me Thirteen.’

You take it all back. This stupid, _stupid_ boy. He's going to get you all killed. Heavy on your shoulder, Barnes laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs.

  



	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoard each and every one of your comments and kudos. I have a separate folder in my email for precisely this purpose. You guys. you guys i love all of y'all SO MUCH. Thank you for enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing this!!
> 
> This went up on tumblr a few days ago, but I think it got buried, so some of you may not have seen it. I'm editing part 4 right now, so that should be up soon too! :D 
> 
> Enjoy!!

You lead them back to your dorm, keeping on eye on Thirteen. The campus is deserted, and he's _exactly_ the sort of idiot to keep looking back over his shoulder on the cusp of an adventure.

When you get to Dorm 5, you usher the others in.

Not-Jenna stays outside.

You look at her in askance, and she shuffles, abashed.

Oh. Right. She tried to steal you, and instead she ended up following you. The balance of power has shifted between the two of you.

‘Be welcome in my hall,’ you tell her, and she executes a perfect curtsy, even in skinny jeans. Barnes chortles and preens at your hair before pushing off your shoulder.

You let Not-Jenna pass through the doorway, and when you close it you lay down a line of salt.

‘This abode is closed.’ You tell the door firmly.

When you turn to join the others, you find Thirteen watching you.

‘You're the Crow Girl, aren't you?’ He asks.

_The_ Crow Girl. You like that. You aren't the only one who's made friends with the crows, but you're apparently the only one worth mentioning.

_‘Girl Who Sings to Crows’_ Barnes caws at him. He goes wide-eyed.

‘Even the crows from outside can learn human words. Elsewhere crows aren't so strange.’ You tell him.

Cat-Eyes, already going through cupboards in the kitchen, snorts.

‘That's a dirty lie, Crow Girl.’ She says, and pops a pretzel in her mouth.

‘Ah, but it's comforting to hear, isn't it?’ you quip, and she and Not-Jenna both give up a chuckle.

‘...I'm missing something,’ Thirteen decides.

‘The Fair Folk can't lie, and since I can, I'm not one of the Gentry.’ You explain, and then add, a little louder, ‘Not that I would ever claim to be.’

He looks doubtful, so you wave at Not-Jenna.

‘Feathers is right,’ she tells him. ‘We can trick, and deceive, omit certain truths, twist and bend others until they break all on their own, but we cannot lie.’

Thirteen does the thing with his jaw men do when they're uncomfortable and don't want to show it.

‘You said ‘we’..?’

Oh. Right. Freshman.

You point at Not-Jenna, tell him , ‘That's _not Jenna_. We call her Not-Jenna.’ You give him a minute to work out the grammar, then add ‘Original-Jenna is _Away_.’

He just goes _‘oh’_.

Cat-Eyes, entire torso in a cabinet, mutters, ‘ _oh_ , he says.’

‘Well, what's your name, then?’ Thirteen snaps at her.

She stands up, a mesh netting of pixie oranges in her hands (you are... not sure where those came from).

‘I'm called Cat-Eyes. From Dorm 3.’

He's very clearly heard of her. His soft ‘oh,’ from earlier makes a reappearance.

Cat-Eyes rolls her eyes, and goes back to raiding your cabinets. (Oh, you get it. It's Tuesday, she's raiding. _Of course_ she’s going to find all sorts of good stuff.)

 

* * *

 

Later, when you've salted all the window sills, laid out a bowl of cream for Cat-Eye’s cats (the cats Cat-Eyes belongs to, maybe? You still don't know. You're still not going to ask), a larger-than-usual portion of whipped cream vodka for the Dorm 5 Brownie, and consolidated all of the bedding in the living room, Thirteen finally asks you where everyone else is.

‘If they're smart, they never came back from break. I'm sure a lot of people have just ... _forgotten_ about Elsewhere. Of the people who didn't, it's possible some people got lucky and made it to the library, or the science center. The chemistry and bio majors are probably all fine, but that doesn't mean they'll be any kind of help. The fair folk tend to leave them alone, and the science department might not be willing to risk that treaty. Especially since Names have been stolen. There’s maybe a few other groups like ours in pockets around campus, but maybe not. A lot of people will have been stolen today.’

He nods, thinking. He tells you, slowly, ‘The rules are changing.’

You hum. ‘Maybe, maybe not. There’s a long and storied history here of people being stolen, and there's precedent for stealing back what's stolen. If we’re very brave, and very clever, we stand a chance of putting things right.’

He looks at you like he thinks you're lying again.

You turn so you're facing him, grab hold of his face to make him listen.

‘Be brave, be clever, be quick.' You tell him, quoting what was told to you when you first came to Elsewhere. 'There is no time for caution, for regrets. Be reckless. When you play Their games, bargain nothing you cannot afford to lose. Be respectful. Never say thank you or sorry or please. Do not eat or drink anything They give you. Watch your words, for they can be binding. Promise nothing. When there comes a time you forsake this advice, be very sure it's worth it.’ You tell him, and there are centuries in your words.

‘These are the rules. These have been the rules for as long as the Fair Folk have been around. The rules of Elsewhere may be changing, but these rules are not.’ You hold his face a moment longer before you let him go. He's pale, but a little less shaken.

‘Be brave, be clever, be quick,’ he murmurs.

From the other side of the room, Not-Jenna hums, and Cat-Eyes tells him, ‘Just so.’

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you do is check the salt lines, and then exchange the empty glass of vodka for a full cup of milk.

When you’ve finished making your rounds, you settle back down in the pile of blankets to dig up your phone. Emergency of the Underhill variety or not, your parents are expecting to hear from you, and you do not need them sniffing around Elsewhere. _Especially_ when there's an emergency of the Underhill variety. 

You have to roll Not-Jenna off your phone, but she just grumbles sleepily at you. (Right when you start to think she’s been in the human world too long, she does something _other_ to remind you that no, actually, this is not a someone, this is a some _thing_. The sounds that she makes definitely aren't reproducible with a human throat. Or recordable with human technology, for that matter.)

You open your phone, type in your password, and then immediately close it. You reopen it. Stare at the date.

‘Cat-Eyes. Cat-Eyes, wake up and check your phone.’

The only sign she's even remotely aware is the solitary finger that extends upwards in your direction.

‘Cat-Eyes, get up.’ You hiss.

Her head shoots up, your tone of alarm finally enough to rouse her.

‘Who's dying?’ She's not even joking a little bit.

You waggle your phone at her.

‘Check your phone.’

‘Oh my god fuck _offffffff-_ ’ she groans, all alertness gone. She starts fumbling for her phone all the same.

‘It's day fucking two of the fucking fairy apocalypse, six-fucking-thirty on a Wednesday fucking morn-’ her grousing cuts off as soon as she sees it.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, ok, waking me up was fair. Three for three?’

You nod. She sits up, looks around, and lobs her pillow - _hard_ \- at the tufts of short brown hair emerging from a pile of blankets to her right.

Thirteen comes awake with a yell, arms flailing.

‘Oi, freshie. Check your phone.’

By the time Thirteen has also confirmed that his phone still thinks it's Tuesday, Not-Jenna has woken up as well.

You discuss it as you and Cat-Eyes put together breakfast, and then as Not-Jenna and Thirteen take care of the dishes.

You all decide that it's _possible_ that's it's still Tuesday because the Powers That Be of Elsewhere consider Dorm 5 to be your Domain now, and you've always been at your brightest and best on Tuesdays.

More likely, though, you all agree, is that the Powers That Be are no more happy at the prospect of the rules changing than the humans are, and now all of Elsewhere _waits_ with baited breath to see how things shake out.

This presumption ( _presumption_ , not assumption, because to just _presume_ you are the heroes of this story is arrogance, _sheer arrogance_ of the highest order, and yet-) the presumption is supported when you venture briefly out of Dorm 5, and the rest of Elsewhere U still appears as though Tuesday has not yet passed.

(You sung Barnes down from another tree, asked it, ‘What day is it, Barnes?’ and got ‘Thieving day!’ in response. Still Tuesday.)

You and Cat-Eyes are both supremely uncomfortable at this, Not-Jenna is not saying anything so carefully that you can't help but be sure that she knows more than the rest of you do, and either cannot or will not tell you.

Thirteen is blasé, because he's applying _logic_ your situation.

‘Well, I mean, it was Tuesday when the theft occurred, and Tuesday when we realized our Names were stolen, so shouldn't it be Tuesday when we steal them back?’

Which. Yes. Rule of three and all that, but this is big magic. Also, why you? Just because the three humans of you are fae-touched? There are many others (were, anyways) who are fae-touched. Because you were almost stolen away? But that's not right either- you're at least eighty percent sure whatever it is that likes Cat-Eyes so well didn't attempt to take her, and anyways, Not-Jenna certainly wasn’t stolen away.

(except for how she was, just a little bit, by you, but that wouldn't count, not by the Court’s reckoning. She tried to steal you and failed and followed you back anyway- that she's yours now, a little bit, is ...weregild is the closest concept humans have for it, you think. Just Desserts, maybe.)

Maybe it's that you all have something ...not watching over, but _watching_ you, certainly. But even that isn't quite right, because the fae that wanted Thirteen wanted him for a snack, and that's a different sort of watchful.

(One might think Not-Jenna wouldn't fit here, either, but Original Jenna has been Away so long that you'd be _very surprised indeed_ if she wasn't more fae than human, now; it would be just stupid of her if she didn't keep track of the thing living her former life, and the continued presence of Original Jenna on the missing lists the Administration Building keeps, not the deceased list, indicates she isn't stupid at all.)

You and Cat-Eyes gaze at each other uneasily.

‘The library?’ You offer. The Librarians are a host unto themselves.

(This has always been true, but certain recent podcasts have certainly not helped.)

Cat-Eyes nods at you, and even Thirteen, willfully ignorant as he is, makes agreeable noises. Not-Jenna looks nervous, which she should (Librarians: host unto themselves), but you're going to need her knowledge, her instincts.

‘The librarians know you,’ You tell her.

‘I know.’ She mutters. From her hunched shoulders, that's apparently part of the problem.

You shrug at her.

‘Sometimes things suck, and we still have to do them.’ Unsaid is that this is part of being (or at least pretending to be) human.

She gets her bag.

* * *

The Library looks like it's expecting a war, which is ..probably fair, you acknowledge. Inconvenient in the meantime, though.

Still, that's a lot of barbed wire. You don't need to turn around to know Not-Jenna's frowning impressively hard.

You all drift to a stop about five feet before the mess of wire.

‘It sorta reminds me of Sleeping Beauty,’ Thirteen says. ‘With thorns and all? All the library needs is a dragon on the roof.’

‘Yes,’ Cat-Eyes drawls, ‘please, give the librarians ideas on how to be scarier, that's exactly what we need. We're in luck, though- we don't need a sword to cut down these vines.’

‘That's good, considering they aren't really vines,’ He snarks.

‘Well, Thirteen, this isn't really barbed wire, either.’

Cat-Eyes has glasses on (cat eye in style, what else would they be. Honestly, why are you surprised) when you look at her, and her eyes glint strangely through the distortion of the lens.

She walks up to the barbed wire, hops to the left on one foot, and walks straight into it.

You eyes supply a vision of blood and torn flesh and a face screwed up in rictus-pain, and then she steps back, whole, hale, and completely unharmed. Next to you, Thirteen is gone as pale as you are.

‘Ayup, grade-A nasty fuckin’ glamour, that is,’ she supplies, and oh. Of course. The Court wouldn't tolerate that much metal, even in the hands of the librarians.

(That much metal- _weaponized_ metal- would be an invitation, more than any sort of prevention.)

‘Monkey see, monkey do?’ You guess, because Cat-Eyes is brazen and bold, but not stupid, so you doubt that she has three extra pairs of glasses on her. Also, even if she did, neither you nor Thirteen have any practice at seeing through glamours. You wouldn't be able to read the twists of magic, of intent, to know where to step to avoid traps.

She nods, starts forward again, but you catch her shoulder.

‘Cat-Eyes, wait- are you dressed right?’ You ask, and what you mean is this: you can't see anything that's inside-out, and you're reasonably sure her underwear aren't either.

She stops, looks down at herself, tugs her shirt off, and drags it back over her head inside-out. Thirteen makes a small, strangled noise.

‘What about you guys?’ She asks.

‘Not-Jenna’s fine, and I’m always dressed right on Tuesdays,’ you tell her as you pluck at a bra strap.

‘Thirteen, you need to be wearing something inside-out. It keeps you from being pixie-led.’ Not-Jenna tells him.

He stares, shrugs, and then his shirt goes the same way as Cat-Eyes’.

‘I’ll take you all through one at a time. There's a lot of tricky portions,’ Cat-Eyes tells you.

After a brief discussion, it's decided that she will take you first, then Thirteen, and then Not-Jenna.

(This requires extracting a Promise from Not-Jenna to neither steal nor allow Thirteen to be stolen whilst you and Cat-Eyes are away. Much rules-lawyering occurs, as well as the agreement to procure a Nokia phone at earliest convenience after the current adventure for Not-Jenna to mess with. You predict explosions.)

And then you're off, and you feel like you are playing the most elaborate, high stakes game of hopscotch you have ever heard of. (Considering where you are, this is saying something.)

You hop, duck, weave, twirl, crouch, bounce, backtrack, curtsy, frog-hop, and tiptoe through the glamour. There were some spots that even you could see the glow of a glamour about, and you resolutely do not wonder what awful bit of magic the librarians have set for unwary travelers.

On the other side, Cat-Eyes rests for half a moment, and then she's headed back to get Thirteen.

You stay as close to the wire as you can. You know that the librarians probably have people on watch, and you don't want them deciding you're a threat. That would be ...bad.

It takes nearly half an hour for Cat-Eyes to get you all through, and she's sweaty, squinty-eyed, and panting by the end. Your little bottle of painkillers makes a reappearance.

You wait a few minutes more to let her catch her breath and rest her eyes, and then you approach the library.

Slowly. You approach the library _slowly_.

Thirty feet from the doors, a voice rings out from a second floor window.

‘Be you friend, or be you foe? Announce yourselves!’ The voice demands.

Jeez. They're really going for tradition.

You yell back, ‘I am called Feathers, sometimes Crow Girl, and we come as friends!’

The glass doors of the library swing open, and you stifle a snort as Cat-Eyes swats Thirteen when he takes a step forward.

After a beat of silence, you call up, ‘We come to seek knowledge. Will you welcome us into your hall?’

You detect movement from inside, and then a librarian is standing just inside the threshold.

‘So long as you neither mean nor offer harm to me nor mine,’ the man says, ‘Be welcome in my hall.’

The tension goes out of your little group. Well, Thirteen still looks tense, but that's because he's spent his first semester being totally ignorant of everything even remotely important. Honestly. Hospitality rules aren't even an exclusively Elsewhere thing.

(Hospitality rules aren't even an exclusively _fae_ thing- there are plenty of cultures that have stories of such rules.) (that have stories of such monsters, really.)

You lead your group in, Not-Jenna bringing up the rear. She really is nervous about the librarians.

And for good reason, apparently. You think you might actually have trouble when the librarian catches sight of her. He tenses, and immediately puts himself in front of you all, blocking the second set of doors that lead into the library proper.

‘Why,’ he starts, quiet but thunderous, ‘Would you think it a bright idea to bring her here?’

‘We come- _as friends_ \- seeking knowledge.’ You repeat. ‘Do you retract your offer of Hospitality?’ You ask, voice slow and even for the first sentence, sharp as screams in the dark for the second.

Hospitality isn't broken lightly. If this man retracts Hospitality, there will be _consequences_ , and you won't even have to stick around to see them enforced. You know this. He knows this.

As it stands, if you left now- even without violence- there'd be even odds on _unfortunate_ things happening here, especially with both sides of Elsewhere as on edge as they are. You'd rather be allowed in, though. You weren't lying when you said you came seeking, and you don't actually want the deaths of how ever many people are here for sanctuary on your hands. (You're not that fae-touched just yet, at least.)

Slowly, _slowly_ , he steps aside. You wave your group though the doors, nod as he makes the ‘I'm watching you’ gesture.

(you'd expect nothing less.)

You step through.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every single time I reload my email and see kudos and/or comments I spend the next half an hour smiling. I love each and everyone of you. :D :D :D

You spend four days in the library. Well. You spend four days-worth of hours in the library, only seven or so of which really pass. The books you sought were deep, deep in the library indeed.

 

It's Not-Jenna who finds the treatise, though you think she might not have done it on purpose. She was trailing her hands along the spines of the books you’d all already looked at, and knocked the last in the row off the table. She'd bent to retrieve it, and found herself at eye level with the tome.

 

(It really is a good thing you're so deep- the squawk she’d let out would have been enough to have you evicted, had a librarian heard it.)

 

As it is, it took Not-Jenna finding it, and Cat-Eyes to navigate the spell work keeping it on the shelf. You ended up having to pluck it out while Thirteen used a rolled up magazine to beat back the grasping tendrils that kept reaching for it until Not-Jenna and Cat-Eyes could find a different book of the same size to give to them.

 

You were all quite glad to retreat to the library’s cafe, after that.

 

(The cafe is not quite in the library- it shares a roof, certainly, but it is completely walled off, and you must leave the library to enter it. You were only a little surprised to find that the librarians’ protection did not extend to the cafe.)

 

(The cafe is sacred. Coffee and cream and other sweets, energy and nourishment, a meeting place, a place to rest, the traditional realm of story-tellers everywhere and when. It would take much more than what's going on now to violate the sanctity of the cafe. On this one thing, human and fae alike are in a singularly bloodthirsty agreement. The only other place on campus that is so incredibly off limits to the vagaries of fate and the profanities of people and fae alike is the bakery, for very similar reasons.)

 

(No, really- one time a window in the bakery was broken by a foul ball. Baseball no longer exists within the bounds of Elsewhere U.)

 

You all order drinks, give the barista their payment and try not to look too hard at their eyes or fingers.

 

The coffee is delicious.

 

You settle down at one of the tables in the back, out of range of the afternoon sun; spread out a few books and notebooks to distract from the thing you're actually here for.

 

‘So.’ Thirteen starts. ‘We have a book.’

 

Cat-Eyes hums, but looks to you. Not-Jenna is very specifically _not_ looking at you. You think she might not have been supposed to find that book, accident or not.

 

The book is in the center of the table, and it looks _old_. Old enough that you are quite sure that if you could convince one of the science majors to do some testing, they might tell you the book is bound in something awful. Like human skin.

 

You flip the cover open, and the first few blank pages. You leave it open at the first page that has writing on it, stare a moment, and lean back.

 

The other lean in.

 

‘...what the fuck.’ Cat-Eyes opines.

 

Thirteen is confused, but, well, he falls closer to ‘jock’ than not.

 

It's Not-Jenna that voices it.

 

‘That's an author's note... in modern APA format?’

 

You nod, and point out the affiliation. _Elsewhere University, Historical Studies Department._ Breaking with format, there's no date anywhere to be found.

 

On a hunch, you flip back a page. The page that was formerly blank now boasts the title of the book in looping, fanciful script that isn't actually English but which you can all read nonetheless.

 

_A treatise on the unique traditions and superstitions of the populations of Elsewhere University- the Underhill, the Overhill, and those in between. Volume 9- on theft, Theft, the differences therein, and the consequences for such Crimes._

 

_By Robert Dove Scyt._

 

You all take a moment to digest that.

 

Thirteen speaks up.

 

‘Robert Dove Scyt? What a name, jeez. ...Oh. Oh, jeez, guys, Rob Dove Scyt. Robbed of sight.’

 

Oh. Oh my, you think. That is. That is quite a name indeed.

 

Quietly, Cat-Eyes asks, ‘Think he lived very long after getting _that_ published?’

 

‘I think he lived for a very, very long time.’  Not-Jenna says, and there is nothing in her voice that speaks of happy endings. She doesn't look up from her coffee.

 

‘Maybe..’ Thirteen starts, and then trails off. You quite agree.

 

‘Well,’ you say, only ever so slightly louder than is perhaps necessary, gathering up poor, hopefully-dead-by-now-Robert’s book along with the few others you had out for camouflage into your book bag, ‘that's enough studying for now. We need to go put out out fresh milk. For the cat. Remember?’

 

The sun, at least, is high in the sky, and the others quickly make noises of agreement and follow you out. You lead your group straight back to Dorm 5, leaving offerings on every park bench, beneath every oak tree you pass, throwing a handful of nuts to the crows, leaving creamers on the picnic table no one ever sits at as you go.

 

When you get there, you lock the doors and the windows and salt the sills some more and establish your thresholds and light candles even though it's still plenty light out.

 

Dinner that night is ramen, with wontons from the freezer and soy sauce for dipping, because even Not-Jenna seems to want a little more salt in her blood after reading _that_. When you sleep, you sleep all curled up together.

 

\---

 

When you all wake next, you all stay in your pile of blankets and page through the book together, passing it back and forth when the script becomes too much for human eyes.

 

It doesn't really tell you much more than you already knew- the rules are the rules, and they really haven't changed much at all. Still, it is nice to have a written copy of an account of the Chemistry Majors’ revolt.  It is ..less bloody than you had believed. The price was paid in other ways. The other ways you read about hold ..promise is the wrong word. And yet.

 

The four of you spend all day like that, passing out mugs of tea to soothe throats and spirits.

 

As the day winds down- well, as the sun sinks closer to the horizon- you pass out mugs of spirits instead of tea.

 

Cat-Eyes calls a toast, grim-voiced.

 

‘To the History Majors,’ she says, and you all raise your mugs to clink against hers.

 

You drink your drinks, re-pour, drink again.

 

When you are comfortably floating, fuzzy, you stir, tell the others,

 

‘I think I have a plan.’

 

Not-Jenna’s eyes catch on the way you're fiddling with your crow pearls. She doesn't say anything, but she looks sad.

 

\---

 

The next morning (well, when the sun is back in the sky, anyway. ‘Next’ implies the passage of Tuesday. It's still Tuesday.) you and Not-Jenna set out early, _early_ in the morning with empty bags and backpacks. When you get back, it's nearing on ten, you're both out of breath and grass stained, and your bags are full to bursting.

 

Cat-Eyes and Thirteen cook breakfast, and then help you and Not-Jenna sort throw the food you brought back. You all repack it into a bag, fold a blanket, find an umbrella.

 

You lead the others to the south quad, where you first started reading and singing to crows, set up your picnic, and wait. None of you eat.

 

It doesn't take long for someone to approach. You've laid out quite the spread, after all.

 

The thing that approaches first is pretending to be Professor Grant, from the art department. (You think Professor Grant must have an arrangement, for how frequently she's taken and returned.)

 

‘Hello, Professor,’ you say, because while this isn't Professor Grant, it does try it's best to teach.

 

‘Quite a spread you've got,’ it says, and it eyes the smoked meats you have with hunger. You don't bat an eye when its eyes turn to gaping maws in between blinks. Thirteen shudders beside you, and Cat-Eyes quietly removes her glasses.

 

‘I try.’ You demur.

 

It swallows, salivating.

 

‘Surely,’ it says, ‘you'd invite a dear professor to feast with you?’

 

‘Alas, this picnic is not just for me. I find myself requiring an audience.’ You smile, apologetic.

 

Professor Grant’s replacement sighs, mournful, and wanders away.

 

Several others approach you, and you replay the scene each time. Thirteen has become bored of being bored, Not-Jenna has wondered off and returned three times already, and Cat-Eyes just broke out a portable charger for her phone. You're beginning to wish you had remembered to bring sunblock when someone walks right up, flops down on a spare corner of the blanket, insouciant,  and pops a grape in their mouth.

 

‘So, Girl who Sings to Crows,’ it says, ‘I hear you and yours are the ones who wanted an audience.’

 

You don't even get up, just fold yourself low over your crossed legs until your forehead is bare inches from the ground, and are glad of the yoga class you took for the improved flexibility.

 

Still low, you murmur a question.

 

‘I am unsure as to how I should address you...?’

 

Magnanimous, it tells you, ‘I am called the Crow Prince.’

 

On the blanket behind you, Cat-Eyes inhales sharply. You sit up, and yes- hair like the sound of feathers, empty eyes, nails dark and a touch too long. You rather thought so.

 

Thirteen, who between bouts of boredom has been making good use of google, breathes ‘Royalty?’ To a very still Not-Jenna.

 

The Crow Prince laughs.

 

‘Not in the way you mean, morsel. I am no great Name of the Seelie nor Unseelie Court, and may no such great Name ever darken our fair doorstep here at Elsewhere!’ He crows, and Not-Jenna mutters a fervent _Here, Here._

 

He quirks an eyebrow at you meaningfully, nodding to Not-Jenna, and you pour him a red solo cup full of orange juice.

 

‘Here, here, indeed.’ He says, raises the cup and takes a draft. ‘No, I am of the Autumn Court, and long may we reign here at Elsewhere!’

 

 _Not the Winter or Summer Court?_ you wonder, but oh, of course: Elsewhere turns on the passing of semesters, not seasons. This is probably one of the only places the Autumn and Spring Courts aren't subordinate to their more well-known counterparts.

 

‘Though it is good for you that you have come to me now. If it were fall I would not have time for you.’ He pops a cube of cheese in his mouth, then spears a bit of salami on talon and bites into that as well.

 

Then he looks-really looks- at the rest of your spread.

 

‘Where _did_ you get all this?’ He asks, and you have to smile. You and Not-Jenna really outdid yourselves this morning.

 

‘It's Tuesday.’ You tell him, and he smiles back.

 

This is the most dangerous thing you've ever spoken to.

 

After that, he just wants to eat for a while, and you let him. He’ll talk when he wants to, and the longer it takes the less worried you are that Thirteen is going to say something stupid and offensive- he'll get bored of being terrified soon enough, and therefore less likely to blurt out something without thinking about what he's saying first.

 

He makes idle conversation as the five of you lounge on the grass: what is small talk to one such as him is nonsense to you. He speaks of stardust harvests and celestial poachers and music made to taste like strawberries, and you all answer as best you can.

 

The Crow Prince is gracious company. He invites you all to eat with him, and you do. You make sure to nudge all the best bits towards him before you help yourself, though, and you can tell by his easy smile and the warmth of the pearls around your wrist he appreciates it.

 

(Something in you preens at his attention. It's the same part of you that delights at the glint of sunlight on your feathers in your hair, at the way other Involved students look at your pearls, at the way people know who you are. It's the same thing that sat up and crowed when Thirteen called you _the_ Crow Girl.) (the Crow Prince has claim on you, and for more reasons than what hang about your wrist)

 

(You make deals, yourself, now. Most people at Elsewhere do- a coffee for help studying, conversation for company, iron jewelry for sea salt- but sometimes, you think you can _feel_ the worth of a thing.) (it scares you, most days. some days, though, it doesn't.) (you are fae-touched, you know. You are more fae-touched each day you spend here.)

 

(You don't really mind, anymore.)

 

(that right there is the more frightening prospect by far.)

 

Almost all the food is gone, and the Crow Prince lays flat on his back, legs crossed so an ankle bobs mid air, one taloned-hand twirling lazily in the air as he speaks. The light from the sun has gone amber, and it twists the You are starting to relax, even let your guard down. This too-pretty thing is of the gentry, of the Court, even, but he is more crow than not. With crows, it is intention, not technicalities, that matter most.

 

You are starting to believe that this thing will not hurt you. (You are wrong. You know this. You _know_ this. And yet...)

 

When he is done, he rolls onto his feet, and you hear the rustle of wings as he moves.

 

He folds himself, looming over you, so he can catch your jaw with his talons to make you look up and up and up and up into empty, empty eyes.

 

‘The dove book will not help you.’ he says, and you’re confused- _the dove book?_ \- before you realise he means the book by Robert Dove Scyt. (fear replaces confusion- what need has the Crow Prince for circumspection?)

 

‘It was an interesting read?’ you offer, feebly. He snorts, and the humanity of it makes your skin crawl.

 

‘ _This_ will be moreso.’ he says, and he is gone, wind tearing at your hair and clothes, knocking over cups and stealing napkins.

 

The Crow Prince is gone, and in his place is a book.

 

Over an illustration of a laughing crow, _So You Want To Go To Underhill_ is written in starlight on the cover.


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ATTENTION:** Chapter Five has been SIGNIFICANTLY changed since it first went up! I was feeling some serious block by the end of the chapter, and eventually realized it was because there was a whole dang scene with the Crow Prince that needed written. Which then changed some stuff further on. SO! What was originally chapter five has been split into two parts- the first bit is essentially unchanged, but then there are a whole bunch of NEW WORDS. EXCITMENT. The original second part of chapter five is now chapter six, and then the rest of the new stuff happens in chapter seven. You will prolly wan to re-read chapter five/six, given that what happens in new!chapter five changes the tone of Feathers and Appaloosa's interactions. Many thanks for your patience and understanding!!
> 
> Hello my dears!! I regret that I haven't been able to update as quickly as I was for the first few chapters, but that's what suddlenly!more hours at work, plus a research class shifting into high-gear (holy shit guys I'm presenting in the poster session at the WPA at the end of this week. guys. guys i'm a _scientist_ ), plus getting ready to graduate, plus an LSAT prep class will do. -_-
> 
> But!!! better late than never, so here we are!! As always, I hope you enjoy. :D
> 
> Oh- the motto is cannon from charmingly antiquated. Who is, as always, ever so generous to let us all play in her sandbox. :D

Hair ruffled and wind blown, clothes tugged askew, the four of you stare down at the book. Thirteen clears his throat.

 

‘Yeeeeah, one of you can carry that. I'm new to all this shit, but I'm still pretty damn sure I don't want to touch that.’  He pops a stray grape in his mouth, as if to emphasize his point.

 

Cat-Eyes laughs, a little hysterical.

 

‘We just had a picnic lunch with the Crow Prince, Feathers. _With the Crow Prince.’_

 

Next to her, Not-Jenna stretches out a hand to lift up the cover a scarce half inch.  What ever she sees is enough to make her snatch her hand back with a squeak and let the cover fall shut.

 

‘Feathers, that book is definitely for you _specifically_ ,’ she says, and you have to sigh. Of course it is.

 

You waffle for a moment- it would be smarter to take the book back to your dorm. _Definitely_ smarter.

 

(you're getting sick of running scared to your dorm after every excursion, though. ..and anyway: if you were smart, you'd have never come back here, armed to the teeth with pearls and salt and the scent of flowers)

 

You reach out, snag the book, drag it into your lap. You hover a hand over the cover, wait for someone to object.

 

No one does.

 

You flip the book open, and... Nothing happens.

 

(You're.. a little disappointed, to be honest.)

 

Just as you let your hand fall away from the book, you're startled by a course, hacking caw.

 

_‘Leaving without me!!’_ Barnes croaks, and if the Crow Prince hadn't knocked everything askew with his leaving, Barnes would have with its arrival.

 

You lean back as Barns ruffles its wings.

 

_‘Bad Feathers!!’_ It caws again, accusing.

 

You look at you companions, and they stare back, as bemused as you are.

 

‘Ah, you want to come with us?’ you ask Barnes.

 

_‘Crow Girl without a Crow,’_ It tells you, hopping closer to you and turning its head to peer at you, tone scolding, ‘ _not quite a Crow Girl.’_

 

‘Well.’ You say. Not-Jenna shrugs, Cat-Eyes makes a face that seems to indicate she agrees, and Thirteen is _still_ too hung up on the talking crow thing to be of any help.

 

Barnes clacks its beak at you, clearly annoyed. You shrug at the others, and tell it, ‘Well, if you want to come with us I'm certainly not going to tell you ‘no’, now am I?’

 

Barnes _hork_ s out some noise you're pretty sure is supposed to be an exclamation of joy, and the book on your lap flashes. The wind picks up, the pages start flapping, and the whole world turns bright, so bright, (starbright), so bright it hurts your _ears,_ and your eyes burn even as you cover them.

 

Barnes’ _Hrah! Hrah! Hrah!_ s and the rustle of wings follow you down into unconsciousness.

 

\---

Light flashes, and it seems as though all around you ceases to be.

 

The curtain pulls back. The door opens. The world fades out.

 

You hear -through the rush in your ears, over the dissolution of your sense of self- the susurrus of  feathers, cool tones of a voice amused, cawing, very quietly, as if from far away. This, too, fades.

 

You fade.

 

You are ....mm. You are?

 

A pause. Confusion, wide and consuming, gradually lessening. Why confusion? No reason. Simpler to simply _be._

 

But. _But_. A thought: _There should be more._

 

But.... Whose thought? Why, and from where?

 

Disorientation, more confusion, but also curiosity-why _dis_ orientation? Why not simply orientation? Why orient at all? How, for that matter? There is _nothing_ around you! _You_ are nothing!

 

Wait. _You?_

 

There isn't a ‘you’. That's preposterous. Why would there be a ‘you’?

 

... _You?_

 

All that is, is. All that was, all that will be, all that could be. Maybe there was a you. Maybe there will be. But not _here_. Not like _this_.

 

_You?_

 

No, the abyss says.

 

_...why not?_ You wonder.

 

The world _snaps_ back, the abyss pulls away, and you clutch your own arms _hard_ , fingers white-knuckled around your own flesh. You drag in a shuddering breath, and then do it again, and again, and again, until it catches in your throat and then, mortifyingly, you're crying, knees to your chest, face against your knees, arms about your head, nails digging moons into skin, choking on your own existential dread made more real than you have ever wanted it to be. You're left reeling from the journey- and it was a journey, as soon as you pull yourself together you'll look up and be in _Underhill_ , so you had better pull yourself together _soon_ \- and you can feel the abyss pressing back down on you, following that thread of obsidian-cored horror unspooling in your chest and tug-tug- _tugging,_ you made it out and it _wants you back-_

 

interrupting, a voice: ‘Out of the dark that covers me...’

 

It takes you _(years and years and years)_ a moment to realize: the Crow Prince. That was the Crow Prince speaking.

 

He repeats, ‘Out of the dark the covers me.’ And like a spell, like a geas, it draws the answering words from your throat:

 

‘Black as pitch from pole to pole.’ You _sound_ like a crow, voice gravel and rust, rasping fit to file metal.

 

‘I thank whatever gods may be...’ he trails off, and again you answer.

 

‘For my unconquerable soul.’ You've always loved this poem. You've recited it to the crows many a time. The spool in your chest winds back up a little, the abyss hovers a little less closely.

 

You go through the whole poem with the Crow Prince, line by line.

 

( _Fell clutch_ and _Bloodied yet unbowed_ and _this place of wrath and tears_ and _Finds and shall find me unafraid.)_

 

(Damn fucking portentful words, the lot of them. You choke them out anyway. _)_

 

When you finish, he starts again, and you share _Invictus_ back and forth until your breathing evens out, your heart rate drops down to something normal, and the call of the abyss is as a whisper from rooms and rooms away.

 

You raise your head from where it's been pressing into your knees, stare blearily around you, wan and hollowed out.

 

You're sitting in the middle of a round, spartan room, maybe 25 feet across, furnished only with carpeting and a single table beside a narrow window. Everything is in grey scale- the walls are rough-hewn, slate colored stone; the room is only dimly illuminated by floating orbs filled with flickering blue flames. The rug you're sitting on is probably white, maybe beige, but you couldn't actually say for sure. The light makes the color seems to slip away from everything, though it throws both the blue of the Crow Prince’s feathers and the patterned silk of his clothes, draped and folded and stretched by his crouched position beside you into sharply high-lighted relief.

 

He looks- not apologetic, not regretful, not embarrassed.... but maybe something close, when you meet his eyes. His eyes are soft, anyway.

 

‘I had not thought,’ he says, (carefully, carefully, like he's picking his way through a field of broken glass on bare feet, words alone fit to clear the way) ‘of what might happen to a traveler who lacked the protection of their Name.’

 

It's not an apology. But it's enough to know that he might offer one, were it not so dangerous.

 

You just nod, and then ask after Cat-Eyes, Thirteen, Not-Jenna. Did they come with you, you wonder?

 

They came, is the answer, but not with you.

 

The answer unsettles something in you, and you lay a hand against your chest in a silly attempt to calm it. The Crow Prince sees, and his serious expression turns wry.

 

‘Clutching pearls?’ he asks, and just like that, you're back on your game.

 

‘You only wish they were yours,’ You parry, and you can feel the fabric of this place _flex_ at you- here you are, at the heart of the domain of a member of the Gentry, of a _Prince,_ speaking, if not as though you are his equal, then certainly as if you are not nearly so far below him.

 

(Anyone else, any _thing_ else, and that _witty remark_ would have spelt your end, but here, _here_ the thing that rules _likes_ you, _lives_ for clever tricks and sharper wit, makes deals like breathing, cornered you at that revel, answered when you asked for an audience, smiled and laughed and joked and did not insist on formalities. He is gentry, yes, but he is also Crow.)

 

The brief moment of levity melts away.

 

‘I do,’ he says, far too solemnly, and that thing you thought to settle with a hand at your heart _thrills_.

 

(Freshman year, this would have left you breathless, flat footed, _frightened_ , and _not_ just because he's of the gentry. Now, it still steals your breath, but at the thought of the _potential_. What favors could you wring from him, what deals, what gifts, what treasures? What could you buy from him, at the cost of your affection?)

 

(From the Crow Prince, it appears, the answer is _quite a lot._ )

 

(Underneath the preening, the gimlet eye considering worth, the consideration of the weight of a heart against feathers, part of you shivers, _shrivels:_ what _kind_ of affection does he want from you? Not-Jenna, you know, has staked as much claim on you as a changeling can, and so been claimed in return, but all _she_ wants is your company, the easy affection of friends familiar to each other.)

 

(Does the Crow Prince want your company, or something more? He’ll be disappointed if he does. _That_ isn't a price you're willing to pay.)

 

( _he'll_ be disappointed, or _you'll_ be _quite effectively broken,_ rather.) (don't think about it don't think about it _don't)_

 

It's not freshman year. You smile at him, just vacuous enough to throw reasonable doubt at any perceived flirtiness, and stand to make your way to the narrow window, let him have your back with an ease to your muscles, along the line of your throat.

 

(there is more to displays of power than those of force, though that's not something you learned at Elsewhere- no, that's down to being a woman.)

 

(funny thing about Elsewhere: nowhere else have you ever had more respect from strangers. Quite the opposite of what you expected when you enrolled, before you knew, before you got Involved, when statistics like ‘one in four’ were bandied about, to and between young women.)

 

You stand at the window, prop your hip against the table, and gaze out of it for your first real look at Underhill. Well, the Crow Prince’s piece of Underhill, anyway.

 

Far below you- far, _far_ below, Jesus you must be up higher than the Empire State Building- you can see the pale bones of trees stretching towards the sky. A path winds through the forest- and it is a forest, trees packed so tight and tangled together you can't see the forest floor, even though the trees are bare- back and forth and back and forth, crossing itself over and over.

 

The sky itself has gone the vibrant pink of sunset, streaks of clouds illuminated purple and orange and every color in between by the last rays of the day.

 

You lean out the slightest bit, glance up, take a guess.

 

‘Highest room in the tallest tower, huh?’

 

He shrugs, and elegant twist of muscles manipulating bones under the cover of skin, tells you, ‘It's traditional.’

 

‘I'm no princess.’

 

‘I am no dragon.’

 

The ‘ _and yet, here we are’_ hangs in the air. You take a second look around the room. There's no door.

 

You look back at him, and he's smiling, just the littlest bit.

 

No door, a narrow window, a tall tower, missing companions. This, you know, is a _test._

 

You lean back out the window, and the farther out you lean the wider it seems to be.

 

‘Do you know where they are? If they're...alright?’ You ask, and take a moment to be proud that your voice doesn't waver as you gaze at the ground far, far, _far_ below you.    

 

The soft whisper of feathers sliding against themselves fills your ears. You refuse to let yourself startle when he lays first one hand, then another, on your shoulder blades. The prick of talons through your shirt gives rise to goose pimples all up and down your arms.

 

‘It was you who opened the way. You took the brunt of the impact.’ He murmurs, then continues, more purposefully, ‘Can you see them?’

 

Your first instinct is to tell him no, of course not, but... you're in Underhill, who _knows_ what is and what isn't possible.

 

So you force down the twist of your lip and bite back the words in your throat, narrow your eyes, then blur them, but no, you can't see them, if they're down there at all.

 

You shake your head, and he sighs a bit.

 

‘Well, it would have made things much easier if you could, but I suppose there are other ways.’

 

You lick your lips, knuckles deathly white on the stone edge of the window, talon-tips pressing just hard enough that you can't tell if he's yet drawn blood. ‘This the part where I trade you my lipstick for a cloak of feathers?’ You ask. ‘Only, I'm not sure I have your color. Or what your color is, for that matter.’

 

You wouldn't mind being able to fly, but you have a sneaking suspicion that that isn't the way this is going.

 

The Crow Prince laughs, tells you,

 

‘No, _Girl Who Sings to Crows_ , we're not trading for wings today. But who knows, you just might find a pair on your own!’

 

You're not exactly _surprised_ when he shoves you, but it still comes as a shock. Regardless, there's little you can do to stop him: you tumble, screaming bloody _murder_ the whole way down.

 

You're not sure if this means you passed or failed that test.


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **STOP!! IMPORTANT INFO!!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Five has been SIGNIFICANTLY changed since it first went up! I was feeling some serious block by the end of the chapter, and eventually realized it was because there was a whole dang scene with the Crow Prince that needed written. Which then changed some stuff further on. 
> 
> SO! What was originally chapter five has been split into two parts- the first bit of chapter five is essentially unchanged, but then there are a whole bunch of NEW WORDS. EXCITMENT. The original second part of chapter five is now chapter six, and then the rest of the new stuff happens in chapter seven. You will prolly want to re-read chapter five/six, given that what happens in new!chapter five changes the tone of Feathers and Appaloosa's interactions. For real new stuff in in chapter seven, which will be up momentarily. :D
> 
> Many thanks for your patience and understanding!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. You've all seen CharminglyAntiquated's latest EU comic right? RIght? 
> 
> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> ahem.

When you next become aware, your head feels as though it’s had the insides of a blender installed and then turned on until your poor, poor brain is a smooth gelatinous liquid. You reach up a hand and are vaguely surprised you can’t feel it dripping out your nose.

 

In other news, your mouth tastes like death. Fuckin’ Crow Prince.

 

You groan, and roll over so you're on your back, instead of curled up in the fetal position. You spend a long moment psyching yourself up, and then open your eyes.

 

Above you (once your eyes stop feeling like they're about to _pop_ from the light), you can see golden motes of dust hanging suspended in the air, drifting lazily, illuminated by the shafts of sunlight that sneak through the wooden slats of the roof. It smells like horses. One hand is still on your head, but you scrabble the fingers of the other on the floor, and yeah, you're lying on dirt.

 

Distantly, you're aware of the sound of large things breathing quietly, the soft _thwip_ of tails being whipped through the air, the groaning creak of a wooden door complaining at being leaned upon.

 

You're pretty sure you're in a barn.  

 

(the air tastes strangely, the sunlight- what creeps through the roof, anyway- is heavy. The dirt you scrape your fingers through feels...less gritty? maybe?? than you think it should, as though it were born from the _idea_ of dirt, more than the slow death of ground stone and decomposing organics.)

 

(You're pretty sure you're in an _Underhill_ barn.)

 

A throat clears, and you let gravity pull your head to the side.

 

It's a girl. Or, rather, a woman, if only just. She's sun-worn, well muscled, wearing a liberal coating of dust and horse-hair over jeans and a shirt with its sleeves rolled up, a sword- incongruously ornate, both the sheath and the hilt- on her hip, and leaning on a pitchfork as she waits for you to notice her.

 

She feels solid, feels _human_ , and though you'd think she'd feel out of place she really, really doesn't.

 

(You think maybe this place is _hers_ , the way Dorm 5 now belongs to you.)

 

You stare at each other, you still flat on your back, the woman still leaning on her pitchfork, until your next inhale drags just a little too much dust in through your nose and you jackknife up with the force of your sneeze.

 

Several horses snort and shift at the sudden noise, and while the woman snorts at you as well, she's distinctly _amused_ , not startled.

 

‘You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing in my barn?’ She asks, and manages to imply a total ambivalence as to whether she'll get an answer the easy way or end up burying her pitchfork in your squishy, squishy innards in the doing of it, if only because you're not worth getting her blade dirty.

 

(you're a little impressed, behind the sudden mortal terror. She didn't even change her _body_ _language_ , and that still came across _crystal clear._ This woman is perfectly relaxed, and absolutely ready to kill you for invading her space.)

 

‘Ah,’ you stall, and then settle on, ‘I mean no offense, and I certainly don't mean to trespass. I don't quite know why I'm in your barn, but, well... I'm pretty sure my companions and I are on on a Quest.’

 

‘Oh?’ Her eyes, flinty already, narrow.

 

And that's when you realize the others aren't with you, _still_. You shoot to you feet, and the woman shifts her weight back.

 

‘Do you know where they are?’ You demand, and there's something dark and possessive rousing itself in your breast, and no Crow Prince here to distract you.

 

(if she's taken them, if she's _hurt_ them, you’ll.. you’ll... you'll scream and you'll bleed and you'll call for the Crow Prince and you'll _make yourself a deal)_

 

‘Where're who?’ Her easy drawl has an edge to it, her hands tighten on her pitchfork.

 

‘My-..’ you falter, rein yourself in, take a breath.

 

(You don't _know_ that she's done anything, you're in _her_ space, now is not the time to start a fight. _Deep breaths._ )

 

‘My companions. A boy who goes by Thirteen, a girl called Cat-Eyes, a changeling called Not-Jenna. And a crow who answers when I call him Barnes.’

 

 _'Yours_ , huh?’ She says, and you know what she's asking.

 

‘Yes, _mine.’_ You'll apologize to Barnes later, but if he didn't want you claiming him he shouldn't have gone on about how a Crow Girl can't _be_ without a crow.

 

(...You're not apologizing to the Thirteen or Cat-Eyes. They've been living in your space and following your lead. They can deal with it.)

 

She sighs, some of the ready-tension leeching out of her.

 

‘I have no idea where your companions are, and even if I did, you’d still need to leave. Her Ladyship’ll be by for her afternoon ride pretty soon, and she is _much_ less likely to tolerate someone from the Autumn Court on her lands than I am, Quest or no.’

 

That throws you.

 

‘Uh,’ you say. ‘I'm not from the Autumn Court. Not from _any_ Court.’

 

She looks squints at you.

 

‘You sure?’

 

‘ _Very_. I’m from Elsewhere.’

 

The ready-aggression of her stance lessons somewhat, and her gaze changes from _appraising_ to _weighing_ . She nods once to herself, and then chants, ‘ _Cauti_ , _Cordati_ \- ‘

 

‘ _Auspicati_!’ You finish with her. (Elsewhere University’s sometimes motto: Wary, wise, and fortune-favored.)

 

(As with most things Elsewhere, this is more true for some than for others)

 

‘Well!’ She huffs ‘That changes things. You still need to leave- _from_ a Court or not, you're sure as hell _affiliated_ , don't even try to tell me otherwise- but I can help you on your way.’

 

That pulls you up short, and she notices.

 

‘I won't ask for payment now,’ she tells you, smiling. ‘You'll owe me a favor, but nothing big. I'm gonna help you on your way, avoid meeting the Lady of the Summer Court who rules here, so maybe someday, when I'm ready to move on, you introduce me to someone in whichever Court you're involved with, yeah? Nice and symmetrical.’

 

You... can agree to that. You bop your head once  in agreement, then offer your hand to seal the deal.

 

She takes your hand, grip firm, and the two of you pump your joined hands in tandem; once, twice, and thrice to seal the deal.

 

‘I'm called Crow Girl,’ you tell her, and she laughs.

 

‘Guess we're both named for what we hang about, yeah? I'm called Appaloosa. Now, Crow Girl, you come with me.’

 

You go with her.

 

\--

 

Appaloosa hides you in the back of a tack room- one of many, apparently, and currently just used for storage, Appaloosa tells you.

 

(Appaloosa tells you many things. For instance, she wasn't stolen, she has a _contract_ with the Lady who owns these lands, drawn up by Stacy in Law. You've never heard of Stacy in Law. You've never heard of employment contracts with the fae, either.

 

When you tell her this, she looks at you funny, tells you she was one of the ‘eck girls.’ At your blank look, she continues, ‘The eck team? E-Q, short for equestrian?’  

 

When you tell her that there isn't an equestrian team at EU, she snorts, tells you, ‘Maybe not at _your_ EU.’)

 

(Elsewhere is an _intersection_ more than anything else- the fae love it just as much because it gives them a foothold in the human world as they do for how it slides between whens, wheres, and whichs.)

 

(The fae aren't the only ones who love Elsewhere for its transitory nature, but you've never had the luck- good _or_ bad- to run into any of the other things.)

 

(....You think.)

  


She has duties to attend to for the rest of the day and much of the evening, so you spend the hours reading Scyt’s book, and then when your eyes refuse to parse the letters anymore (as much from the dimming light as from the strangeness of them), you try to doze.

 

It's warm, in the tack room, and you’ve repurposed a stack of saddle pads three feet high as a place to rest. Leaned up against the wooden walls, curled up with a book and the scent of summer thick in your lungs, it's easy to drift off, even with your worry for the others taking up space in your stomach.

 

(Several times you...  'wake' isn't quite the right word. Several times, you _drift_ closer to consciousness, and then drift back down into the grasp of sleep, as easy as the tide.)

 

(you dream that you made friend of a thing of the Summer Court instead of the crows, took up the sword instead of the pen, studied medieval literature instead of the modern mind. When you slipped, when you fell, when you faltered, they took you far away from Elsewhere, from where the Summer Court stands subservient to the Spring, and they called you Red Handed for the things they had you slay)

 

(you dream of biting into summer-ripe fruit - peaches, cherries, strawberries, nectarines, melons: a different fruit each time you fall, the taste like rust in your mouth, pits and rinds fallen by the wayside like gristle, like rib bones, red juices and pulp dripping down your chin, your hands, onto your chest and wrists until you are all-over stained with it, until all you touch is stained with it _it will never go away-_.)

 

You wake (and the dream fades, though not the tang of blood, heavy upon your tongue, nor the feel of a blade, heavy in your hand, and you wonder at the sensations, not knowing where they came from) to Appaloosa calling for you in hushed whispers, the the shelves and tack around you turned unfamiliar and sinister with the lack of light.

 

You straighten up from where you've slumped against the wall, wipe the cobwebs away from where they've stretched across your eyelids, put your book back in your bag, walk with careful step to where Appaloosa waits for you.

 

When you get close enough to make out her expression, you see that it's _grim_. Her sword is loose in its sheath.

 

‘I know where your companions are.’ She tells you. She's not happy about it.


	7. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **STOP!! IMPORTANT INFO!!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Five has been SIGNIFICANTLY changed since it first went up! I was feeling some serious block by the end of the chapter, and eventually realized it was because there was a whole dang scene with the Crow Prince that needed written. Which then changed some stuff further on.
> 
> SO! What was originally chapter five has been split into two parts- the first bit of chapter five is essentially unchanged, but then there are a whole bunch of NEW WORDS. EXCITMENT. The original second part of chapter five is now chapter six, and then the rest of the new stuff happens in chapter seven. You will prolly want to re-read chapter five/six, given that what happens in new!chapter five changes the tone of Feathers and Appaloosa's interactions. For real new stuff in in chapter seven, which is below. :D
> 
> Many thanks for your patience and understanding!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!! An actual update!! (good thing time doesnt actually exist right? ...shhhhhhh.)
> 
> But, in all seriousness, I am SO GLAD to be back in the writing mood. I got a little block after I posted chapter five, but that finally resolved itself when I figured out a missing scene needed to be shoehorned in. (Directly related: go re-read chapter five/six.) 
> 
> I'm trying out something a little different in this chapter: we get a Not-Jenna POV! Things kept happening outside of Feather's line of sight, and those things insisted on being relevant, so. POV change. also, p. sure we're gonna get a POV from Cat-Eyes pretty soon here, too. :D
> 
> also x2: HOT DAMN CHARMINGLYANTIQUATED'S SECOND EU COMIC. SO COOL. i just. ITS SO. FRICKEN. COOL.

She hustles you out of the tack room, the barn, and away from the well-trodden paths and cobblestone roads of the main stables, until you're jogging down a down a dirt path, every footfall kicking up puffs of dust.

 

Even at night, it's warm- the air isn't humid, but the dry heat of high summer ( _Summer,_ even) is heavy and awkward in the back of your throat; you're already panting a bit by the time the manicured roses and reeds that line the way give way to cottonwood trees.

 

Appaloosa keeps you at a steady trot until the stables are completely out of sight and the woods loom over and around you and vegetation stretches tendrils into the dirt of the trail you're following. After the third time the path folds back on itself she slows to a walk, but even then the pace is brisk.

 

The path Appaloosa leads you down grows increasingly thin, winding and crossed with other trails. It seems to narrow both ahead of and behind you, though wherever you step is at least a few feet across, as though the sheer presence of her is enough to make a way.

 

Finally, she slows to a stop in the center of the intersection of no fewer than five separate trails.

 

‘If you wait here, your friends will come across you.’ She says, and there's something stiff about her shoulders.

 

You eye her cautiously, but she's staring out at the woods, and it's dark besides.

 

‘I appreciate it.’ You tell her. ‘I don't know how I would have found them on my own. Whenever you want that introduction...’ you trail off. Her shoulders hunch, and there's something cold and afraid taking up residence in your gut.

 

‘You don't owe me anything.’ She bites out. She's still not looking at you. Your heart pounds in your chest.

 

‘We shook on it.’ you say. ‘We have a _deal_.’ The words are cold as iron in your mouth.

 

‘And I signed a contract. Prior obligation. You make it out alive tonight, and then _I'll_ owe _you_.’

 

The pounding in your chest isn't just from your heart. You can feel it reverberating up through your heels, along your bones, all throughout your torso. A spike of panic drives through you.

 

(You _hate_ the panic.)

 

Hoofbeats. Hoofbeats in Underhill, and a guide reneging on a deal.

 

(hate hate _hate.)_

 

She sighs, a huge forceful thing, finally turns to look you in the eye. ‘I'll owe you big time.’ And then, full-knowing: ‘I'm sorry.’

 

You take a deep breath, hold it ‘til it burns-

 

(feed the fear to the hate, use it to climb back on top of the roiling emotions threatening to drown you. You can _work_ with hate. You can _ride_ anger. You feed your fear to the hate and let the anger pull _you_ back up.)

 

‘I want your _Name!’_ You all but howl at her, spitting, fists clenched. You are _owed_ at least this.

 

She doesn't even argue, just closes her eyes and tells you.

 

‘Anna Louise Sutton,’ she says, and you _feel_ the power of it slot into place within you. You don't even hesitate.

 

‘If I die this night, _Anna Louise Sutton,’_ you snap, you intone, you _order, ‘_ If I or any of my companions are hurt because your Lady hunts us, you are to _fall on your blade.’_

 

Her sharp inhale as the geas takes hold is a balm; enough to sharpen your rage into something usable.

 

‘Which way to the nearest border?’ You demand, and _Anna Louise Sutton_ points down the path to your left, pale and thin-lipped.

 

That's convenient, in that you're reasonably sure the host riding this night is headed down the path you're currently facing.

 

‘How many?’ You ask, and when she hesitates, you crack out, _‘Anna Louise Sutton,_ how _many?’_

 

_‘Twelve!’_ She gusts the word out like it hurts her. Maybe it does. You're beyond caring. (That's a lie: you're not beyond caring. Maybe it hurts her, and if it does, _good.)_ ‘Eleven hunters, and for the involvement of the Autumn Court, the Lady herself rides as well.’

 

You nod to yourself, grim, and cast about for some way to get out of this. There has to be one- there _has_ to be. The Crow Prince sent you here, shoved you off a precipice, all but told you to learn how to fly.

 

The taste of Summer on your tongue- dry, heavy heat, warm, comforting, _somnolent_ , redolent of easy afternoons spent lazing by water, a blush of sunburn upon your skin, a salt-rimmed drink frosting your fingertips, the weighty scent of bamboo, of palm trees, of sagebrush, lavender, eucalyptus, cottonwood trees, citronella, bonfire smoke, riverbed dust and alfalfa hay, the tang of an ocean breeze traveled miles from the coast- the bouquet whispers, tangles up your thoughts, makes it hard to breath.

 

_(Your fingers tremble on the zipper of your bag)_

 

The smell of horse-sweat and the sweet bloom of alfalfa fields make you long for your childhood, when school was still easy and you took lessons at a barn half an hour from home, thrice weekly, like clockwork, blood and sweat and tears for the sheer joy of it, and the scent of Summer says _yes, yes, that, exactly, what need for wings when you can share a set of hooves?_

 

_(One hand claws, white knuckled, at the strap, the other delves deep, scrabbling-)_

 

and yes, you _remember,_ how it was, how it felt, when you and a horse somehow found the same wavelength to exist upon, how it was as if you were of one mind, one body. How nothing ever felt as good as the _ba-da-ba_ of a good strong canter stride, the build toward a jump, the gather and play of muscles just before and then _soaring_ over, and _yes, what need for wings,_ you already know how to fly to the beat of well-shodden hooves-

 

_(Your grasping fingers close on)_ iron in the shape of nails, each as long as your palm, and you grit your teeth as rust and sharp edges alike dig into it, god you're going to need to get tetanus shots if you ever make it back, you just stabbed yourself - _on purpose!_ \- with _literal rusty nails-_ whatever, don't think about it, and at least the glamour is gone because you can hear shouts and shrieks and beyond that a huntsman’s horn rising clear and above.

 

You pull out your handful of metal and zip your bag back up, settle it on your back, and as you do you shout.

 

‘Here! This way!! Guys, this way!!’

 

\--

...Something different:

\--

 

_A girl (A girl? Ha!. A thing_ _shaped_ _like a girl) runs through summer woods, and curses her stolen (not stolen!! Traded for. Not fairly, and not honestly, but traded for, deal sealed with shaken hands and shared blood spilt between them) form. She is not the human girl named Jenna, and her name amongst the humans reflects that._

 

_(It makes her feel like negative space to be defined by what she’s not, like the shape of her can only be realized by looking where she isn't. Unnerving, to be so known. Remarkably astute, nonetheless.)_

 

_What she is, however, negative space notwithstanding, is stuck in a human shape, and therefore answerable to all those pesky laws of physics._

 

_Such drudgery it is, to be beholden to heaving lungs and aching legs._

 

_Beside her runs a human girl, a human boy, and on wings above her a Prince’s crow._

 

_The girl (thing-shaped girl!) does not particularly like the Prince's crow. It is a reminder of the Prince, and the Prince is stronger than she is. He doesn't follow rules like others of the court, but then, he is not_ like _the others of the court. He’s something in between, not quite the right fit, and so he eels out from under rules and out of bindings that snare all the others._

 

_(...the girl (thing!)(_ girl, _she is a she if she decides she is!) has not considered that jealousy might be a more motivating factor than fear for her dislike of the Prince.)_

 

_The girl does not mind the humans- the female knows the rules well, and the male has proven that he can be taught- but she much prefers the one she's grown used to already. The one who_ _isn't here._

 

_(The one the Prince has ‘called dibs on’, to utilize the vernacular.)_

 

_(The girl is so,_ so _angry about this: she saw her first! She was there first! The girl was supposed to be_ hers _!! But the Prince is stronger, and so the girl bows her head- at least she is not made to go away- ...but she is running for her life from a Lady of the Summer Court, so the rage gets pushed to her burning aching human legs.)_

 

_(So ungainly, gaits made of falling. Ridiculous.)_

 

_At her side, the female leaps over the glamour of a fallen tree- easier, for most humans, to avoid than to overpower- as the male jinks to the side of it, long legs easily eating up the difference to rejoin them in hardly more than a heartbeat. He’s breathing hard, but not nearly as hard as she is, ill-adapted even after having spent years shaped like this. The female, at least, is having just as much trouble._

 

_They are being toyed with, she knows. She is familiar with such games, had played them before she played at being human._

 

_(She finds she doesn’t much like playing hunted rather than hunter, but that’s part of being human, she’s found: you learn new things everyday. No guarantee as to whether or not they’re_ pleasant _things.)_

 

_They fell Underhill into a Summer Lady’s lands, and long ago she could have run them down, but the Lady and her hunters are_ enjoying _this: for hours now, the hunters have played with them, at times so close they can hear the horses’ heavy breaths, other times drawing away, letting them rest so as to extend the game; sometimes, they are allowed to run nearly to the border of the Lady’s lands before they’re herded away._

 

_This is one such time. The girl can practically_ taste _the chill, unfriendly air of unclaimed lands, and though she leads the others towards that heady scent she knows that it is futile, runs for her life regardless. It’s all part of the game, she knows- the hopelessness, the despair. She figures they’ll be allowed to rest at least twice more before they’re finally ridden down- they aren’t quite broken enough yet for a Summer Lady’s taste. Another thing she’s learned from the humans: the word for this is_ mindfuck _._

_(....It’s a good word.)_

 

_Yes, the changeling girl called Not-Jenna knows she will die this night, and yet she cannot bring herself to stop, to stand and fight, or even to just accept her end with dignity. No, instead, she wants to rage, to rend and claw and tear and bite. Wants to hurt the ones making her hurt. Not unfamiliar feelings, save for the sheer desperation that drives them._

 

_‘Spend too long away from the Else and the human starts to rub off onto you,’_

 

_And yes, she knows, knew going into her deal, but she's only now seeing the bad of it- before, it was a benefit, all the better to let her walk amongst them. She knows better now._

 

_(Now, of course, is much too late to do her any good._

 

_A human saying: too little, too late. And another: tough fucking shit.)_

 

_She runs. Runs and runs and runs, and when the human girl stumbles, she finds herself slowing to grab at an arm and jerk her upright, has the favor returned by the boy when she pulls too hard and stumbles herself._

 

_They're running hard, sweating and panting, each exhalation a harsh exclamation, and they are_ so close _to the border, she can feel those unwelcoming winds of the unclaimed spaces, can very nearly taste that sweet water of (relative) safety. This is the closest they've gotten, and gods above and below she wants, wants_ wants _so hard she can almost convince herself she's strong enough to warp this portion of the Else, but no, no, she's just running so hard she's gone light headed (physicality is_ awful _), and it takes the cat eye girl driving her claws (nails? Humans have nails, she's pretty sure) into her arm before she can shake it off and drag a deeper breath into her stupid corporeal lungs._

 

_She loses it as soon as she's taken it though, because as soon as she does the boy jerks his head up, grabs hold of the cat eye girl- who still has a hold of her arm- and zags to left, away from the border._

 

_Cat eyes yelps, stumbles, and again Not-Jenna keeps her up, though she yelps just the same._

 

_‘No!’ She gasps, even as she's tugged along._

 

_‘Yes!’ He hollers back. ‘Crow-girl! Feathers! I can hear Feathers!’_

 

_And as his voice dies she can, indeed, hear Feathers, calling out, calling for them, and suddenly the burn in her legs, the stitch in her side, they don't burn quite so badly. They're still going to die, Not-Jenna knows, but she finds she's not quite as bothered by it anymore._

 

_‘Here!!’ Feathers shouts, ‘This way! Guys, this way!!’_

 

_\--_

_\--_

 

You shout, again and again, bouncing on your heels, heart in your throat, Appaloosa grim faced behind you, as the sounds of the hunt grow closer, ever closer.

 

_God_ , you can't help but think, _let them make it_.

 

The iron in your hands clacks together as you shift your grip, counterpoint to the clinking of the chain links around your waist.

 

The sound settles you, if only just a little. Nails and chain- not quite a sword and chainmail like out of the stories (and there are students, staff on campus who call themselves Knight, but it's never a calling you ever felt drawn too), but for your purposes, they're close enough.

 

You hope. God, do you hope.

 

Barnes appears out of the trees and bush first, the very tip of a wing brushing your shoulder as it passes you.

 

Your heart is pounding fit the rattle the world, but you can’t hear it over the way the woods are pounding with hoofbeats, deep and resonating and overwhelming.

 

‘Here!’ you shout again, waving an arm over your head. You think you can see movement down the path Barnes came from.

 

(then again, these lands are _not_ friendly towards you, and it’s dark besides- but no, you _do_ see movement, please be them, _please-)_

 

Thirteen crashes out of the darkness, wildeyed, shirt once more torn -should’ve called himself Kirk, you think- and dragging Cat-Eyes by the arm, who in turn has hold of Not-Jenna. They’re drenched with sweat, burdened with scrapes and scratches from running through the forest, and if you had better light to see them in you imagine they would look as grey as they do exhausted.

 

Thirteen shouts ‘Crow girl!’, Not-Jenna gasps, ‘Feathers!’ and Cat-Eyes shrieks, _‘Run!’_

 

You firm your jaw and your stance both, jerk your head at them to move past you.

 

No.

  
No, you aren’t running, you aren’t _prey_ to be run down at a hunters’ leisure. Like you told Not-Jenna, days ago and worlds away (and isn’t _that_ still a terror to think on), you aren’t _safe_. If they want you dead, want a trophy of you, they should have set a better trap, one you couldn’t hear coming from literal miles away.  

 

They gave you just enough time to think, to plan, and now you are going to _bite back_.


	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!!! Another chapter, and with it more POV changes!! I'm not totally sure how I feel about all the POV changes, but things keep happening when Feathers isn't around to see them, so... 
> 
> Anyways, we get to hear from Cat-Eyes this time. She.. really does not trust Not-Jenna!! That was not a thing I realized until I got into her head space!! Which was kinda trippy, let me tell you. We also have a little bit from Not-Jenna again, and I think next chapter (which I'm about a third of the way through!!) we'll be hearing from Thirteen, so look forward to that. :D
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> (i adore each and every one of the comments you leave. I haven't responded to all of them yet (because im hoarding them like a dragon in my inbox) but i'll get to them all soon!! :D :D :D )

It’s Not-Jenna who notices, who flinches away from you as she passes, still caught between Thirteen and Cat-Eyes, drops her gaze on your clenched fists as she steps past and behind you.

 

(which is good, which is _right_ , she is _yours_ , and that means she is yours to _protect-)_ (just enough of you is fae-touched to be oh so terribly _territorial_ , so _possessive_ , but still enough is human that it comes out as _fiercely protective_ ) (protective is ok, you tell yourself; protective means you care; means you won’t harm) _(you can still touch iron you can still tell lies)_

 

You step forward until you are just before the entrance of the path to the crossroads, go to kneel in the center. The others are nearly to the other path, the way out, the trail to the border; Cat-Eyes and Thirteen are calling for you, unwilling to go on without you, but afraid to remain, still breathing heavy. Not-Jenna stands silent, a hand pressed to her ribs, panting the same as the others.  

 

You ignore them. You kneel. You scatter your fistfuls of iron nails before you, line them up end to end so that they form a line _(and if you have more nails than you thought you did, well, you never bothered to count, did you? No, you didn’t, pay it no mind)_ from end to end, and Cat-Eyes and Thirteens’ voices reach a fever pitch, a roaring crescendo of terror and war drums, and you look up ( _and up and up_ ) and _smile_ at the Lady bearing down on you, elegant killing blade shining naked in her hand, bloodlust in her eyes, awful maw agape as she shrieks death down upon you, her mount a pitch black thing with gnashing razor teeth and smoking eyes of fire and each pounding hoof the size of your head, and it _screams:_ it  rears and screams and paws the air and dances back and forth, side to side, sides heaving, nostrils flaring, fiery eyes rolling, and it will not, it _cannot_ pass your line in the sand.

 

The other hunters seep out of the darkness behind their Lady, horses puffing and snorting and pawing, but drawn nonetheless to rein, no more able to pass than the Lady.

 

A thought drifts through your mind, and you snort, have to laugh, stand, gesture grandly with arm outstretched, hold the image of a very specific wizard in your mind and declare,

 

_‘You shall not pass!’_

 

And that’s it, that does it, you feel something _snap_ into place and being as Thirteen, Cat-Eyes, even Not-Jenna are shocked into short barks of laughter in recognition of the reference, and the knowledge of the line and the force of the story behind it- brought to Else by you just now, yes, but by many, _many_ others over many, _many_  years- adds weight and force and _reality_ to your line of iron and your declaration both.

 

The Lady looks as rage incarnate, and you can’t help it, you really truly can’t: you toss off a jaunty two fingered salute and a smirk as you get to your feet, turn around, walk away.

 

(but you maybe should have remembered that Gandalf didn’t stop the Balrog without falling himself, because-)

 

Not-Jenna’s eyes go wide, she shrieks your name, and you turn back towards the host of Summer fae just in time to see the Lady’s rapier leave her hand, to see it arc through the air, to feel it light a blaze of sensation through your shoulder. You have just enough time to hear Appaloosa gasp, her breathy moan of fear, to hear her draw her blade, and then- _ohhhh._

 

Oh, you think, and then it's just oh, oh it _hurts, ohfuckithurts, ithurtsitburns, ohgoditHURTS_ and oh, the metal that didn’t go all the way through gleams so sweetly with some slick substance.

 

Everyone is screaming: Appaloosa, bleeding on the ground with her sword in her stomach, hands fluttering uselessly, futilely about her gut wound; the Lady, victory turning to ash in her mouth, arm flung out, sword hand empty as she beholds the state of her stable master; the hunters, behind her, crying foul; Barnes, swooping in frantic drunken circles above you all, cawing, cawing; Thirteen and Cat-Eyes and Not-Jenna, screaming variations on your name.

 

And you. You scream: no words, just sound, just noise, just raw animal terror, because there is no part of you capable of comprehending this pain- it hurts, its hurts, oh god it _hurts-_ much less containing it.

 

And then, and _then-_

 

And then you fall and you fall and you _fall_.

 

\--

 

Dimly, distantly, you are aware of grasping hands wrapping roughly about your arms, nails digging in, pulling at your clothes for something to grab hold of.

 

You are being moved, you think, dragged, and each shuffle-stepped forward jolt of motion jostles the blade within your flesh.

 

_Ithurtsohgodithurts_

 

You scream, you moan, you fall deeper, deeper, deeper.

 

\--

 

You are still being moved. It is agony. _You_ are agony. Nothing that you are is not also pain.

 

Something is different in the air, perhaps.

 

...this means nothing. Air exist so that you may drag it into your chest so that you may release it with the sounds of your pain.  Still you moan, you gasp, you arch and thrash to and fro, still you suffer. Air breezes in, proof of pain blusters out. The change means nothing.

 

There is pressure on your stomach, you forehead, then your chest and your neck-

 

You pull yourself deeper within yourself in an attempt to escape the onslaught.

 

\--

 

You.... you curl up, with both your physical body and your mental presence. The blade is gone. You didn't notice that happening. You wonder if you screamed louder.  

 

(you really, really did)

 

You feel a bit like you did in the abyss of the in between, so very far away from yourself. It was a horror then.

 

Not so much, now.

 

Sluggishly, you become aware of a hand jostling your thigh and calling one of your names- _feathers.. feathers!-_ Not-Jenna, then, the others still call you some variation of Crow Girl.

 

...you don't want to wake up. Not that you're truly _asleep_ , but certainly you're closer to some sort of trance than any true wakefulness.

 

Better this way. The pain doesn't reach this far down.

 

\--

 

They move you again. The movement pulls you up, closer to the pain.

 

One of them- you think it's Cat-Eyes, maybe?- is brushing your hair out of your face, _shush-shush-shush_ ing you. She's a little frantic about it, and not being _here_ matches nicely with your own desires, so you try to force yourself to ignore the way you're being jostled.

 

It's not easy: every time your body takes a breath it moves your shoulder, and there's another pattern of spiking pain that you think matches footsteps. Thirteen is carrying you, maybe.

 

And once you figure out the pattern to the spikes, you start waiting for them, anticipating, and that makes it harder to pull yourself away from the pain, from consciousness. The anticipation builds and crests with each breath, each step, and you can't ignore it, can't master this, can't even _think_ past this, and your breathing comes faster faster faster-

 

...You pass out. Which is, you would think, if you were conscious enough to consider it, at least _sort of_ like success.

 

\--

\--

 

Cat-Eyes has never felt worse in her life. She’s slick with _layers_ of sweat- fear-sweat, even, which fucking _reeks_ \- pretty much every muscle even vaguely connected to her legs shakes with fatigue, closer to point-of-failure than she's ever been, and her entire ribcage-not just a side- is stitched up in pain.

 

Doesn’t matter. Can’t _let_ it matter. Not-Jenna says they have to keep going.

 

At least she’s not carrying Crow Girl. Cat-Eyes (and it is _really_ not a good thing that she even thinks of herself as Cat-Eyes, nowadays, but fuck, man, she’s got a _customer base_. She can’t go around rebranding herself willy-nilly!) (...shiiiiit.) has no idea how Thirteen ( _Thirteen_ ? _Really?_ ) is still managing to truck along with Crow Girl in a fireman’s carry over his shoulders.

 

They spent _actual hours_ running for their lives, and now Not-Jenna is setting a brutal pace getting them away from the Summerlands.

 

(...Summerland, hah. She’s always hated Santa Barbara. So fucking pretentious.)

 

Cat-Eyes tries not to think about how they’re following the _changeling._ Least of all evils, sure, but _still_. Changeling. Underhill. Continuing to make with the following.

 

_Madness_.

 

(Does Crow Girl even know what Not-Jenna is? Obviously, she knows she’s a changeling, and Cat-Eyes knows she has a pair of her glasses, but has she ever used them to _look_? From the easy way they interact, Cat-Eyes is _pretty_ _damn_ _sure_ she hasn't. She'll say it again: _madness._ )

 

Cat-Eye stumbles, distracted from the path the changeling is making by her thoughts, and in front of her Thirteen slows and braces, lets her catch herself against his back. Which, hot damn, muscles.

 

Cat-Eyes shakes herself- _Not the time -_ and then grows concerned when Thirteen doesn't start again.

 

‘You need to rest?’ she asks, and then when he just hesitates (because he's a jock, and therefore afflicted with toxic masculinity and can't ask for help to save his life unless it is, indeed, an _actual_ life threatening situation) she goes on: ‘cause I know I do, and I'm not carrying Crow Girl.’

 

There. Pride salved.

 

He nods, and _wow_ he is not looking good.

 

‘Hey, Not-Jenna, we need to stop again.’

 

The changeling, a yard or so ahead of the three humans, stops, turns back and grimaces, her hand white knuckled around the hilt of the sword she pulled out of Crow Girl.

 

‘We already stopped once!’ She says, and for all that they're out of the Summerlands she still stands hunched, shoulders up around her ears, back-lit eyes flickering around, sword tip waving like grass as she turns her gaze around and around and around.

 

God, her eyes are so freaky.

 

Thirteen doesn't say anything, just sways a little, hitches Crow Girl a bit higher up on his shoulders. She gasps, a high, thready sound, and her eyes flash open just wide enough to show the way they roll- insensate- before she goes limp again, head lolling.

 

(Better that she's passed out, Cat-Eyes thinks. The screaming was... was...)

 

Not-Jenna wilts when she hears Crow Girl, and finally seems to _see_ just what kind of shape the other two humans are in. Still, she wavers between insisting on continuing the forced march and breaking to rest, and Cat-Eyes wishes she had spent more time actually interacting with the other Involved students before this. She doesn't know the right words to make the changeling listen.

 

Thirteen sways again, and Cat-Eyes leans more pressure on the hand on his back, slants her shoulder to catch Crow Girl if he goes down. Which is a distinct possibility- he's gray and clammy and pushing himself far and beyond too far.

 

Not-Jenna watches, considering (how far can she push, what can she take before she gets push back, _fucking changeling_ ) and finally nods.

 

‘Just a little farther. I can make a place up ahead.’

 

Thirteen sags, just a little, and Cat-Eyes can't tell if it's in relief or dismay.

 

‘Here, let me take her,’ she says, but he shakes his head, almost more of a tremble than any purposeful movement.

 

‘No, no, she’ll wake up.’

 

(And then start with the screaming. Yeah, Cat-Eyes thinks, fair point.)

 

She nods, stays close as they move on, just in case. At least they go more slowly this time.

 

It really isn't much farther- maybe another ten minutes before the changeling sighs and mutters,

 

‘Here’s as good a place as we're going to find.’

 

_Here_ doesn't actually look a single bit different than the wilds they've all been trekking through for the last eternity, but Cat-Eyes is beyond caring.

 

As soon as the changeling stops talking, Thirteen is easing Crow Girl down, slowly, steadily, and Cat-Eyes hovers until he gets her all the way down, and then gets himself sat down after. Miraculously, Crow Girl doesn't doesn't stir.

 

...maybe not so miraculous. That can't actually be good. Unless maybe she's shifted from unconsciousness to sleep? That's a thing that happens outside of medical dramas and TV, right? Shit, she can hardly walk a straight line right now, much less try to straighten out valid medical advice from the dross of Hollywood magic.

 

Not-Jenna hands her bag over, and Cat-Eyes digs through it for a bottle of water. She takes a slug, passes it to Thirteen, and then watches as he tries to get Crow Girl to swallow some. She whines, high and distressed, but he does get some of the water down her throat, so Cat-Eyes is calling it a win. She turns her attention back towards the devil they know.

 

The changeling is pacing out a circle around them, and brush and rock formations that Cat-Eyes hadn’t really paid attention to other than to clamber over are somehow .. _receding_ away from them as she goes, leaving an empty ring of dirt centered on Crow Girl and Thirteen.

 

Cat-Eyes stands still for a moment longer, swaying a bit on aching feet, watching, worrying, and then realizes quite suddenly that _she doesn't need to be standing right now._

 

She jerks one arm in through the strap of her backpack, drops it off the other shoulder like it's hot, and thus unencumbered reaches up under her shirt to unclasp her bra.

 

_‘Fuuuuuck’_ comes out her mouth as soon as the band relaxes around her ribcage, and she drops down onto the dirt next to her bag, first just on her rump, and then - when nothing immediately awful happens - the rest of the way down, arms starfished out.

 

Cat-Eyes categorically refuses to move until her muscles stop ...doing the pain thing. Yeah. That's the way to phrase it.

 

_Ugh_ , the dirt is going to form a _coat_ of sweat-mud on her skin, and she can’t even bring herself to care: this stupid patch of dirt is _home_ until she regains enough energy to be grossed out.

 

She's about to actually say that to Not-Jenna, but when she glances over the changeling is already peering intently at her. Creepily. With her creepy lit-up eyes. _Ugh._

 

Discretion being the better part of valor, Cat-Eyes just says, ‘I'mma take a cat nap. Wake me up if we're about to die.’

 

She prods Thirteen until he sticks out his leg for her to repurpose as a pillow, and then she suits actions to words.

 

(The changeling’s grumblings are low, rumbling, reminiscent of the noise the horror-movie monsters always make, barely inside of human hearing, and just enough like a cat's purring that she drifts right off.)

 

\--

 

Not-Jenna watches the humans sleep, and contemplates.

 

She hadn't wanted to stop: they still aren't far enough to be -for a given value of the word- safe, and Not-Jenna has no friends here.

 

Even this camp- as much as a puppy-pile of humans can be called a camp- is ever so precarious. More easily carved out of the Unclaimed than she had expected, though.

 

...Much, _much_ more easily. It makes her nervous. It makes her think of the way the cat one had thrown herself down so very _determinedly_ , and how the circle seemed to flow so much more willingly after. Makes her think of the chant that the students sing-song at each other: _iron in our blood, metal in our veins._

 

It's something to think on, perhaps.

 

Not-Jenna looks up, at the un-sky, and misses the stars. There are lights, bright and distant, far and above, but they aren't stars, and they certainly aren't in the pattern she's grown used to. They drift, oh so distantly, as an hour passes by, unnoticed or remarked upon.

 

She wonders if stars will appear if the humans spend long enough here. Wonders if her own expectations will help, or if she is too changeable. She has always accepted the latter as truth, but now..

 

She understands humans a little too well, is the thing. Not _very_ well, but certainly better than most of her ilk. She has to wonder, now, if that understanding comes not from accompanying Feathers to her classes, but from Feathers’ expectation that she _should_ understand.

 

It is... not a comfortable thought.

 

(She wants to go back to being negative space, being known only by her absences, recognized only by viewing what is missing. She doesn't _like_ being seen, affected like this.)

 

...But she and Feathers have bound themselves up with each other, and while it was without a doubt done with more knowing on her end of things than the human’s, it remains true. And now she follows Feathers.

 

(Follows Feathers, who grows more fae with each passing day, and knows it, and is already too far gone along to properly care, if she ever properly cared at all. This is not how Not-Jenna had planned to keep her lovely human girl, but she is, after all, a changeling. Nothing if not adaptable, is she.)

 

She follows Feathers, and though she hasn't bent the knee, Not-Jenna knows in her heart of hearts that she will, the moment the girl is fae enough to accept it.

 

She ponders that thought, at the way it catches the breath in her throat, makes her heart pound. There's something there, something else that she should be seeing.

 

She drops her gaze from the un-sky to gaze at the humans - ah, but there is something here other than humans.

 

.... _ah_ , she thinks again, and drags her gaze slowly towards the crow, perched on top of the male's backpack. It is the _prince’s_ crow. The prince, who introduced himself as Crow Prince, and after , only _after,_ had he said _‘of the Autumn Court’._

 

_Oh,_ Not-Jenna thinks. _My, my._

 

This, now, _this_ is a thought worth pondering.

 

The crow blinks it's beady eye at her as she watches, and when she ducks her head- just a bit, just the barest hint of respect- it shuffles its wings in invitation and she gladly joins the clump of bodies.

 

Not-Jenna sleeps, and dreams sweet dreams of cataclysm.


	9. Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Thanksgiving, lovelies!! I just want to say that I ADORE each and every kudos and comment y'all leave me. And!!! And and and!!! I have to scream about this: ONE OF YALL MADE ME FANART!!!!! Go look at Yondoloki's drawing of Feathers and Barnes!!! She looks so punk! 
> 
> https://yondoloki.deviantart.com/art/Feathers-and-Barnes-714883945
> 
> I just. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I just cannot get over how many people enjoy this story. Honestly, I'm blown away. Thank you all so much. 
> 
> As for the actual chapter: we finally get to hear from Thirteen, and I finally figured out where the scenes after this chapter want to go! (I try not to post without at least a couple hundred words of buffer. Keeps me from _totally_ losing my rhythm, lol.) I'm _hoping_ chapter ten won't take so long, but, well, no promises. ;P
> 
> Also: you guys. this chapter will bring the word count to _over twenty thousand words._ which is friggin _mindboggling._

Thirteen wakes up first. Sleeping on dirt sucks butt, but he was exhausted enough last night- does wherever they are even have night and day like the regular world? Whatever, that's how he's gonna think of it- that comfort didn't really factor in.

 

Still doesn't, really, except for how Cat-Eyes - yeah, _that_ Cat-Eyes, and _man_ has he heard things about her, but also those thing were all from upper year frat boys, so he gets the feeling he should _mayyybe_ not repeat any of that, or, uh, think it, if at all possible- is still monopolizing his leg as her pillow, and his leg has gone so numb that if he couldn't see it, he wouldn't be able to tell he actually still had one.

 

...he kinda wishes it was his arm. Because it still hasn't healed, and hurts like an em-effer.

 

Though it's well enough on its way that he knows he's gonna have some gnarly scars by the time it does. Which he's not particularly excited about, because that means the next three years of locker room talk is going to focus on him. And he doesn't-

 

Thirteen makes himself take a deep breath.

 

Scars! Scars are cool. He’ll just have to make up something believable. Or maybe he'll go the other route? A wildly different and equally unlikely story each time someone asks him about them? That's always a fun party trick, at least from the outside.

 

Fuck.

 

He takes another deep breath and holds it until his lungs burn.

 

Maybe one of the girls knows some weird skincare trick for getting rid of scars? There’s probably a weird skincare trick for getting rid of scars. Yeah.

 

Maybe he'll ask when the others wake up.

 

Curled up on the other side of Crow Girl...

Should he being calling her Feathers? She introduces herself as Crow Girl, and that's what Cat-Eyes calls her, but Not-Jenna calls her Feathers, and it kind seems like the difference between calling his high school teammates by their last name versus their first name.

 

On the other side of Crow Girl-Possibly-Feathers, Not-Jenna shifts and grumbles a little, and Thirteen’s heart rate just about triples.

 

Fucking _heck_ that noise wasn't natural. (...maybe he won't ask, after all.)

 

She sits ups, stretches her arms over her head, slow and languid. She sighs as the let's her arms down, and then- and then she's staring at him. Oh god.

 

Uh. _Uh._

 

‘Morning?’ He offers.

 

Her brow furrows, and she looks up pointedly at the ambiguously lit sky. (Pseudo-sky? Whatever. He’s in weird faerie land and if normal things have different names here he doesn’t know them, so he’s just gonna stick with familiar words.)

 

She glances back at him, eyebrow raised.

 

‘Well, we slept, now we’re awake. Fuc- uh, I mean, that’s close enough? To being morning, I mean?’ Oh god why is he like this.

 

Mercifully, she just _hm_ ’s and nods.

 

The silence stretches into something truly, truly uncomfortable. Past uncomfortable. Possibly verging on tortuous. Nope, Thirteen thinks, nothing verging about this. Tortuous has come and gone. He darts his eyes towards the other two girls, but no. They’re both still dead to the world.

 

(Oh god that was awful phrasing Crow Girl is still _injured_ why did he have to think that—)

 

He’s just about to open his mouth to say something, _anything,_ when Not-Jenna perks up.

 

‘So!’ She chirps at him, ‘You kept me upright after I tripped, when we were running in the forest.’

 

It catches him off-guard, but hell, anything to stop the awkward.

 

‘Uh, yeah? You caught Cat-Eyes, right before that, didn't you?’

 

Her eyes narrow as she nods slowly, like she's looking for the trick. (The awkward isn’t gone. Alert, the awkward _is not_ gone, _mission abort_ — Thirteen squishes that train of thought with a supreme effort of will.   _No freaking out right now, stop it.)_

 

‘I _did,_ yes,’ she says, dragging out the vowels. ‘Why is that relevant?’

 

Thirteen has no idea what this conversation is even about, much less what is or isn't relevant to it.

 

‘Uh, well,’ he stalls, _‘you_ brought up stumbling? And you caught her right before I caught you, so...’

 

Not-Jenna has a really weird look in her eyes, like she's weighing his worth, contemplative in a distant, alien sort of way.

 

...It’s actually really similar to the way the cheerleaders looked at- nope, not that, bad thought, not thinking that, _no. (Supreme effort of will.)_

 

Thirteen jiggles his knee just a little, trying to restore blood flow without letting the changeling see. Does she have sharp teeth? He's never noticed. She doesn't have claws though, so there's that at least, and now that he's had a few hours of sleep he can probably outrun her-

 

Not-Jenna interrupts his spiraling thoughts.

 

‘So _you_ helped _me,_ because _I_ helped Cat-Eyes?’ She asks, speaking slowly like she's trying the words on for fit.

 

‘Uh, yeah? Yeah.’ That seems like it's maybe the right answer? And it's only sort of a lie?  

 

Like, if she’d just left Cat-Eyes, or like, had been the reason she'd tripped he probably wouldn't have, but that would have been really shitty so he's really glad that isn't a thing that happened!

 

Oh god she's still staring at him.

 

Thirteen jiggles his leg harder- oh god pins and needles, all of existence is suffering, the Buddhists on campus are right and he's going to convert as soon as they get back- and Cat-Eyes come awake with a gimlet eye and a muttered ‘who's dying an’ why do I care?’

 

(Thirteen is a solid eighty-seven percent sure that the only reason the frat guys who say _things_ about Cat-Eyes are still alive to say them is because Cat-Eyes has no idea about any of it, and quietly resolves that she won't find out from him.)

 

(At least, not until after the season. If she finds out he knew and didn't do anything she might think he's ok with that kind of talk and include him in whatever awful punishment she'll inevitably dole out.) (...he should maybe just leave the frat. And possibly the football team. That honestly seems like smartest move.)

 

‘Ahaha, Cat-Eyes, so funny!’ He says. He _actually says_ ah-ha-ha, _ugh_.

 

‘You should definitely wake up and join the conversation Jen- er, _Not-_ Jenna and I are having about how we were running for our lives not all that long ago!’

 

She grumbles and rubs her face against his leg until he makes an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat and she realizes what she's doing, then obligingly sits up.

 

‘Mm, running for our lives.  ...Right, right, I tripped, didn't I?’ She muses, shakes herself a bit, and cracks her neck. Thirteen shivers, a little bit.

 

‘Yeah, this needs settled.’ She says, and then adds, ‘Good thought, Thirteen.’

 

She even leans over to pat his shoulder- perfunctorily, sort of like she's trying to pet a dog, but mostly is just very bad at it.

 

Thirteen is still confused. Why was that a good thought? What needs settled? He wishes Crow Girl/Feathers (Crow Feathers? Can he just abbreviate to Crow Feathers?) would wake up. She at least sometimes remembers to explain what’s going on.

 

Cat-Eyes moves so she's sitting cross legged, facing Not-Jenna. She twists first to one side, then the other, stretches her arms over her head, rolls her shoulders a few times, and ends leaning forward with her hands on her knees, staring intently.

 

‘Alright, changeling,’ she says, eyes narrowed. ‘Let’s _do_ this.’

 

(Is this some sort of negotiation, Thirteen wonders? Is that what he’s seeing? That almost makes sense, provided you don’t take ‘catching a friend when they fall while you’re all being chased by crazy faeries who want to kill-and/or-possibly-eat-you’ as something you just _do,_ but instead as a capital-f Favor.

 

Which... is probably the case. Which is stupid. Why is helping out something that needs to be ... _monetized_ ? Like. _Obviously_ he helped Not-Jenna, why _wouldn’t_ he?

 

Except apparently that wasn’t the obvious course of action. Apparently, that’s worth the changeling pinning him with her weird lit-up eyes and asking him why he- oh. Ohhhhh.)

 

(Did he just talk Not-Jenna out of owing him a favor? Thirteen considers that for a moment, and then decides it’s probably for the best. What little googling he’s done has told him that the whole debts and favors thing sometimes doesn’t end _happily_ for the mortal in question.)

 

He tunes back in, sort of excited to see how this whole negotiation thing is going to shake out, but Not-Jenna is sitting with her shoulders hunched, looking a little nervous, a little disgruntled.

 

Her eyes dart between Thirteen and Cat-Eyes, back and forth, back and forth.

 

Finally, she huffs, turns her head away.

 

‘There is no debt.’ She says, and immediately hunches her shoulders even further.

 

Wait, what?

 

Thirteen is pretty sure that’s not what was she was supposed to say. Apparently Cat-Eyes agrees, because she pops out a flat, _‘What’_ as well.

 

Still not looking at them, Not-Jenna shrugs and just repeats herself.

 

Thirteen glances sidelong at Cat-Eyes, who has narrowed her eyes even further.

 

‘Say it a third time,’ She says, low and ...challenging? Yeah, challenging, like a dare.  Like she doesn’t think Not-Jenna actually will.

 

Not-Jenna, for her part, snaps her head around to glare.

 

‘Once and twice I have said, and now thrice again I say: there is no debt, there is no debt, there is no _debt_ what needs _paid!’_ She snaps, looking harried and haunting, words echoing strangely and heavy in the air for what feels like too long.

 

‘Well then.’ Cat-Eyes says. Not-Jenna makes a face at her, Cat-Eyes makes one back, and that seems to be that.

 

Thirteen kind of wants to go back to sleep.

 

Next to him, Crow Girl groans, low in her throat.

 

\--

 

You come _aware_ slowly, so slowly, and yet altogether too fast, completely and totally against your will. You don't want to be awake. It stills hurts.

 

It hurts and it hurts and it _hurts-_

 

You push it away, hover in that space just beneath wakefulness, not quite asleep but neither yet part of the waking world. (look, look, you’re _learning_ )

  


You can hear Not-Jenna and Thirteen- he sounds nervous? Maybe? And then, Cat-Eyes, a brief back and forth, and Not-Jenna, angry, a little bit. Disgruntled. Cat-eyes, considering.

 

Fuck. Fuck you are actually going to have to wake up, all the way up to eyes-open and thoughts-a-running, and the mere thought of _that_ wakes the pain, sends waves of it rolling over you, shocking, appalling, all-consuming, and you _don’t want to._

 

You are so _close_ to giving in and letting it wash you back down, giving up and letting it in to overwhelm, but then you hear Not-Jenna, tone close enough to be almost words.

 

She’s..calling your name? Maybe?

 

_‘Feathers- Feathers, are you alright? Can you hear me? Feathers?’_

 

Yeah, she’s calling your name. One of your names, anyway. (...You miss when she called you Corvus.)

 

(it... fit better. you _have_ feathers, yes, but..  Mm. Corvus _fit_ better.)

 

_‘Feathers, wake up. You have to wake up now, come back.’_

 

(...but that means pain. It means suffering, it means being worn away, wave after wave and screaming with it.

 

No, no better to stay-)

 

_‘No, Feathers, please, stay with us-’_

 

You can feel- you can _feel_ something pat-pat-patting against the side of your face, and. And.

 

(And oh, oh she sounds so _sad,_ no, no, you don’t want that, and _oh_ but this hurts in such a different way-)

 

(And she keeps patting the side of your face, a little harder now, just this side of pain, just this side of slapping, so you- so you-)

 

You wake up.


	10. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies!! I come bearing the TENTH FREAKING CHAPTER, how crazy is that????? a little longer than normal, but I think you'll all be alright with that.
> 
> I can't believe how productive I've been this past month, word count-wise.
> 
> Semi-relate: how would y'all feel about a oneshot about Appaloosa's backstory? I hope the answers are positive, because in a few days that's what y'all will be getting. In addition: total crack oneshot re Not-Jenna interacting with Muffin, also probably going to be up soon. ;p
> 
> As always, I am blown away and so delighted by the response to this story. I have a folder in my email of all your reviews and kudos, and  
> I hoard them like a dragon hoards riches. :D :D :D :D

You wake up, and immediately twist yourself to the side to vomit. Oh god. Oh god, moving was a  _ mistake.  _

 

You heave, again, and again, until all that’s coming up is bile. By the time you can stop, tears are streaming from your eyes, your stomach muscles burn nearly as strongly as your shoulder does. 

 

(...the pain is different, now- the quality, the breadth of it, something- it is... still enough to steal your breath, if you aren’t careful, but somehow more manageable, now.)

 

You gasp for air, let the others manhandle you so you're sitting up, leaning against Cat-Eyes. She pulls your hair out of your face. 

 

Not-Jenna flutters in front of you, hands flitting up and then down, over and over, until Thirteen passes her a water bottle and she holds it out to you. 

 

You try to take it with your good arm, but you can barely lift it. Not-Jenna ends up having to hold it for you, and you hum at her when you’re done. 

 

(oh, and you realize: you’re trembling. you hadn’t noticed.)

 

You get maybe thirty seconds before your innards revolt. 

 

‘Think ‘m gonna puke again,’ you croak, and promptly do. Cat-Eyes leans you over first, at least, and it’s only the once this time, so that’s something. 

 

Behind you, Cat-Eyes makes a very quiet ‘ick’ noise under her breath, and honestly? Yeah. You are right there with her. 

 

‘Maybe a smaller sip, this time?’ Thirteen offers, and Not-Jenna holds the water bottle to your lips again, though at a much slighter angle. 

 

You take one sip, swish and spit to the side, and then a small, hesitant swallow. 

 

‘ ’s good, I think,’ you say, after a small eternity. It feels like that’ll stay down. 

 

Just that feels like a victory, but you also feel like you just came out of a knock-down drag-out fight. You’re  _ exhausted.  _

 

_ ‘No!’  _ Not-Jenna snaps at you, and you jolt. Your eyes had gone half-mast, and you hadn’t even noticed. 

 

‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ you mutter, but she grumbles at you anyways. More of a low thrum, really, you muse, not quite in her throat, more like it’s coming from her chest, low, like a purr, sweet enough to drift away to- 

 

‘Hey!’ She snaps again, and again, you jolt. The pain that snaps through your shoulder wakes you a bit more, but just as soon you start to slip away again. This... this isn’t normal, you’re beginning to realize. 

 

‘What’s...what’s wrong with me?’ You murmur, and even that is an effort. 

 

‘There was poison, on the blade,’ Not-Jenna tells you. ‘It may yet still kill you.’ 

 

Thirteen makes a sharp unhappy noise. 

 

‘Can we do anything?’ Cat-Eyes asks, ‘...bleed it out, maybe?’ and Not-Jenna shakes her head. 

 

‘Not that kind of poison. It’s... hm, closer to a spell? It’s in her blood now. Nothing we can do.’

 

‘Just gotta ride it out, then.’ You mumble, and Not-Jenna just goes ‘ _ Mmm,’  _ in answer. 

 

You all sit there, still, for one moment, then another, and your head feels so  _ heavy- _

 

Not-Jenna prods you hard enough to hurt - not actually that hard, her nails are sharper than she lets you see - and keeps prodding until you’re sitting up on your own strength.  

 

It takes..  _ effort _ , and effort that you’re not accustomed to, and you're struck by the cleverness of it.  Spend so long fighting to stay asleep, and as soon as you wake purposefully, you have to fight to stay  _ that _ way. Fucking summer fae. 

 

‘C’mon, help me up,’ you say. ‘Need to move, if I’mma ...if I’m gonna stay awake.’

 

Not-Jenna takes you be the wrists, and at the bob of your head she heaves you up. 

 

You sway dangerously for one moment, two, and then steady, and your vision only grays-out for half a beat longer. She only lets you stand a moment before she pulls on your wrist, drags you forward one step, then another. Doesn’t stop. 

 

‘You don’t.... know anyone.... who can help?’ you half ask, half slur, and she just shakes her head. 

 

‘What about- ,’ you have to pause and take a breath, work your tongue around in your more to shape the words right. ‘What about. Whoever it is. That you go to see, when you’re being an RA?’ 

 

Not-Jenna starts to shake her head again, but stops, considering. 

 

‘...huh.’ She says. And then: ‘That could work.’

 

You take another moment to breath through the giant fit your shoulder is throwing, try not to stumble when your breath catches in your throat, stumble anyways when she doesn’t let you slow down. Awful, awful girl, she is.  As soon as you have enough breath, you prompt her, ‘Worth a try, maybe?’ 

 

‘...I’d have to go alone.’ She says. ‘He’s unaligned.’ 

 

There’s a measure of silence at that broken only by the shuffle-drag of all your footsteps. 

 

‘What’s that mean, unaligned?’ Thirteen asks, and then hastens to add, ‘Er, if you can say, I mean,’ 

 

Not-Jenna tilts her head at him a little, but evidently decides she’s willing to share. 

 

‘He’s not associated with any Court: neither Seelie or Unseelie; nor any of the seasons; nor any of the endless smaller courts. Not even really with the wandering folk.’ She shrugs.  

 

‘He’s, well, an information broker, I suppose you could say.’ She stops for a moment, ponders, goes on: ‘He’ll probably be willing to meet with me, because he knows me, but...,’

 

‘But not if you show up in the off season as well as in the company of people he doesn’t know.’ Cat-Eyes finishes. 

 

‘Yes,’ she nods, ‘Exactly.’  

 

Cat-Eyes chews on that for a while, and a thought occurs to Thirteen, which, good. The more they talk the more you don’t have to. 

 

‘Wait, she’s- er, you’re  _ actually  _ the Dorm 5 RA?’ He asks, eyebrows high, and sidles closer to hear the answer. He thinks he’s being clever, but you don’t miss him leaning against your good arm, shoring you up. 

 

Not-Jenna ...harrumphs. That’s the only word for it. She harrumphs. (Only half of it is about the RA thing, she’s not nearly as fussed about it as she still pretends she is, and Thirteen sidles right back from whence he came.)

 

‘It’s not like I _planned_ it! I just... well. The original and I.. and then.. well! It’s on the paperwork in the admin building, so.’ She says, as if that explains anything at all, and nods graciously at him when she thinks you won’t notice because she _sped up_ again _why_ do you like her, clearly she’s _awful._

 

‘Wait, you can get into the Administration Building?’ Cat-Eyes wants to know, suddenly aghast. 

 

‘No, I  _ can’t.  _ Which was rather the  _ issue _ .’ She says, and tosses her hair. 

 

(Not-Jenna always mimics mean-girls body language when she’s flustered about human things. Showing her those movies was  _ hands down  _ the best decision you made freshman year. She’d been  _ so confused. _ )

 

Thirteen blinks at her, doe-eyed and amused. 

 

‘So you just.. started doing RA stuff? Since you couldn’t get to the paperwork?’ 

 

‘I didn’t know about it until they told me I had to go fetch four different girls!’ She exclaims, then makes a production of turning bashful. You don’t believe it for a second. 

 

‘And, well, they gave me  _ all sorts _ of nice things to do it,  _ so _ ...’

 

You have to laugh at that, and it  _ hurts,  _ yes, but not as much, now. Not so much, not so deep, not quite so debilitating.

 

‘That stuff is for bargaining them  _ back,’ _ you tell her, only mostly out of breath, and she just about sparkles at you. 

 

‘Yes, and the better I bargain, the more I get to  _ keep!’ _

 

Cat-Eyes mutters  _ ‘Typical,’ _ under her breath, but Thirteen laughs just a little bit, too. 

 

Somehow, you’ve managed to walk all the way across the clearing without quite noticing. Ever so slowly, you take up more of your own weight, until your hand is simply resting on Not-Jenna’s arm, and then, cautious, you lift that away as well. 

 

‘You mustn’t stop,’ she tells you, and you hum your agreement.

 

She hovers a hand at your back, and you turn obligingly with the angle of her shoulders- she has you walking the edge of the clearing, keeping pace with you, sharp eyed and watchful. 

 

Fallen back to the center, Thirteen jostles Cat-Eyes with an elbow, and they start rolling up the blanket, putting away empty water bottles, and zipping up backpacks.

 

This.. isn’t sustainable, and advil isn’t going to fix this. You’ve read about mental techniques for managing pain, have even used them some, when your cramps get really bad. If you think hard enough, you can almost visualize a barrier between your pain and the rest of yourself. Never were terribly adept at it, but a few times...Well. You have nothing to  _ lose  _ for trying. 

 

You hold your hand out again, and Not-Jenna’s arm rises back up. You close your eyes, and breathe as deeply as you can, slow and even so you don’t jar your shoulder. 

 

You let Not-Jenna guide your steps, and let yourself fall, just a little, just a bit, under the sway of the spell. 

 

(You breathe, and breathe, let the rhythm of your footsteps make the meditation your own. 

 

You breathe, breathe, narrow your focus to the burning-pulsing- _ pain _ in your shoulder, let the rest of yourself fall away-)

 

(You breathe- and step- and breathe, and step- and breathe, as you step-)

 

(You picture a crest of light washing it’s way over the burning center of your pain, imagine so fiercely you can nearly feel it, crafting a barrier of mottled glow, thickening, strengthening, surrounding, until it completely contains your wound, blocks the spread of pain.)

 

_ (breathe in, breath out, step,and  sway, step, and sway, Not-Jenna’s arm warm underneath your palm, breathe and step and sway and breathe-)  _

 

(Your senses stop at the barrier, you tell yourself, you can feel nothing past that wall you’re imagining- no pain, none at all- like a lightbulb, burning bright but  _ separate,  _ and stable so long as it  _ stays _ separate  _ \-  _ until you can almost imagine that you  _ don’t  _ feel any pain, none at all-)

 

You open up your eyes, take a deep breath, keep the barrier fixed in you mind, and roll your shoulders, first one, then the other, careful, so careful, of the coal in the center of your joint. 

 

‘Ok,’ you say, test the taste of the word upon your tongue, find it pleasing, find it true. ‘I’m ok now,’ you say, and yes, yes you actually  _ are. _

 

Not-Jenna meets your eyes, and she is smiling, smiling,  _ smiling,  _ so wide, why-

 

‘What the  _ fuck, _ Crow Girl,’ Cat-Eyes says, interrupting  _ (rude),  _ staring at you  _ (rude!),  _ no, not you, your shoulder-

 

Where a soft glow filters through your skin, your shirt, just inside the wound, keeps in the blood, the pain. You crane your neck to look down at the glowing bit of the barrier you can see through your broken skin. 

 

‘Huh.’ You say. (...is all you can bring yourself to say.) 

 

Mind over matter, indeed, you suppose. 

 

‘That’s ...uh, that’s kinda freaky.’ Thirteen says, slow and even in the manner of the truly alarmed. ‘Should we be freaking out about this? I feel like this is something we shoul- ok, no, never mind, I said nothing.’

 

You snort, and lean on Not-Jenna until she has to stop glaring at Thirteen or let you fall over, and she pouts- just a little- until Cat-Eyes calls him a coward under her breath and he fluffs up like an angry bird. Then she’s just amused.

 

She still keeps you walking around the clearing for another three loops, and by then the others have everything packed up. 

 

Thirteen and Cat-Eyes both have a backpack slung over each shoulder, and Not-Jenna just..stares at you, for the longest time. 

 

‘I... I do need to go alone.’ She says. 

 

You nod. She told you that already.

 

‘I know,’ you remind her, and she frowns. You mimic her earlier movement, tilt your head at her. 

 

‘I’ll keep moving. I know the shape of the poison, of the spell, now. It won’t drag me so far down that I can’t claw my way back up.’ you offer, but that’s not quite what she wants to hear because-

 

‘Yes,’ She says, still frowning. ‘I know.’

 

‘Go, then,’ you tell her, and she stays stalk-still for another moment that drags forever, forever, nigh unbearably, until the tension in the air doesn’t quite snap, though nor does it whither, just leeches away, and she takes one step back, and then another. 

 

You hear the weight of wings on the air, and so you’re ready for it when Barnes lands on your right shoulder. 

 

He clicks his beak at Not-Jenna, head twisted to peer at her out of a single eye, and she jerks, as if he’s reminded her of something. 

 

‘Ah, I didn’t mean- this is yours, Feathers,’ She fumbles the words, takes two steps back towards you, pulls the rapier from her belt loop to offer it to you, hilt-first, fingertips delicate against the naked blade. 

 

Your blood still stains it, dried and flaking in the gutter and where the tang of the blade sinks into the hilt. She holds it like she knows how to use it. 

 

‘Keep it for me,’ you tell her. Her hand spasms around the blade, her eyes go wide. You don’t look at where the edges of blade cut into the glamor of her hand. 

 

She retracts the offered blade, and again steps back once, twice, still holding your gaze, and then turns on her heel and aways. 

 

—

 

The girl (...no? Nothing? That’s  _ fuckin right _ .) stares at Feathers, lungs suddenly absent of air, stupid human heart beating fit to keep the rhythm of a war, filled with a sudden exultant willingness to do precisely that. 

 

Oh, oh,  _ Feathers,  _ she thinks, can say nothing, nothing at all, and so she leaves, turns on her heel and runs, because Feathers doesn’t know what she’s offering, what she’s  _ given _ , but she knows  _ enough  _ and it makes Not-Jenna want to scream and jeer and throw off her glamor and  _ howl  _ with it. 

 

And then she  _ does _ because she is far enough already that the others will barely be able to see her, and besides, Feathers has already seen the behind the barest edges, the cat one has her awful glasses and the boy is proving to be delightfully pliable but there is nothing wrong with a  _ reminder _ . 

 

So she does, throws off her glamor, lets all her limbs impact the ground as she throws herself forward ever faster, shakes out her fur and  _ howls _ fit to rattle the wilds,  _ I am here, I am here, hear my voice, fear my teeth, I am here!  _

 

And cacophony of noises rises up in response, other wanderers of the wilds responding to her call, so she gathers her rage and her glee and the feel of her war-beating heart deep in her chest, her  _ actual chest _ , none of the shallow rib cage physical confining  _ humanness _ , gathers it deep in her chest and  _ roars  _ with it and those who had answered fall abruptly silent, as they  _ should _ because she is here,  _ she _ is  _ here _ , and they should  _ fear her teeth.  _

 

She runs, and howls and roars and snarls for the joy of it, until the ground she runs upon grows familiar, the wind that whips through her fur becomes nearly fond, and the scraggly bushes change gradually into close-leaning trees, gnarled and scarred, each and every one of them draped and covered and wrapped in silken web, each gleaming strand as thick as her human shape’s wrist.

 

Here, hopefully, she’ll find answers.  _ Here _ is where she’ll find the spider. 

 

—

 

They watch her run, until they can barely see her- it takes hardly very long at all - and Cat-Eyes has to turn away very suddenly when the changeling  _ changes.  _ It’s one thing to see past the glamour with the aid of her glasses, but another thing entirely to See with the naked eye. 

 

Thirteen looks deeply unsettled, as he should. She doesn’t  _ get  _ how he can bounce back and forth so easily between asking questions, bold as you please, and then shrinking from the changelings’ glares. 

 

Crow Girl, freak that she is, just keeps staring, avidly, until even that awful racket dies away. 

 

It’s far,  _ far  _ too late to be having second thoughts, Cat-Eyes thinks, but here she is: having them. 

 

Having them really, really hard. 

 

‘You sure you know what you’re doing, Crow Girl?’ she tosses out, but doesn’t actually expect an answer. 

 

Which is good, because all she gets from her is a murmured admonition that it’s  _ ‘rude to stare, Cat-Eyes.’  _

 

Means Crow Girl has gone strange again, though, which  _ isn’t _ good. Thirteen catches her eye, nods a little at Crow Girl, confused. Cat-Eyes just shrugs back at him.

 

He hasn’t really noticed it before when she went strange, doesn’t know what it means, but Cat-Eyes has seen this before- students going strange when they spend too much of their time in or around things from the Else. Never ends well, when they start going strange. Not that Cat-Eyes’ has seen, anyway, and for all that she tries not to, Cat-Eyes sees more than most. 

 

It’s why she generally doesn’t socialize with the other Involved- she provides a subtle, humane alternative to silver-nitrate, and what her buyers do with that alternative is up to, and on them. That’s the limit of her altruism, and what keeps  her tolerated. She provides a means, that’s all. 

 

Crow Girl, with an EU crow on her shoulder, gifted feathers in her hair, starts walking. It’s an easy pace, at least, and there seems to be something of an actual path to follow, now, which is nice.

 

Maybe Crow Girl hasn’t totally lost her marbles yet, Cat-Eyes muses. Maybe Not-Jenna hasn’t just left them for dead. Maybe the Crow Prince really does just want to help. 

 

Maybe the sun will pop down for a cup of tea. 

 

Even if they do make it back to campus, Cat-Eyes is pretty sure Crow Girl is already long gone. 

 

Too late for second thoughts, she thinks again, glances over to Thirteen, who looks young and tired and worried, and then ahead to Crow Girl, still off, not yet come back to herself from whatever freaky thing she did to fix her shoulder. Far, far too late. 

 

Cat-Eyes grits her teeth and quickens her pace to catch up, knocks into Thirteen.

 

‘Be brave, be clever be quick.’ she tells him, and he smiles back at her, grateful. 

 

She purposely leaves out the part about ignoring the advice.


	11. Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is on the wind, and more than our motley crew know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers!! It's been ...nearly three months since the last update, so I figure it's about time for another chapter!
> 
> Not a whole lot happens in this one? There's dialog, though, and Feathers coming to terms with some stuff, and Thirteen tipping the others off that he's not doing so hot. So character development!! Which is always fun. 
> 
> Things should pick up, action and capital-Q-Quest wise, p. dang soon, which I, for one, am quite excited about. ;P
> 
>  
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!!

Not-Jenna slows the rhythm of her run to an easy lope, and then slower still. It was a lesson hard learned: things caught in the webs here do not often escape hale or whole, and _none_ escape twice.

 

So she slows to a careful walk, and then a delicate step, and then finally packs herself away, presses and pulls and condenses until she walks in human shape once more, Feathers’ sword still in hand.

 

Here, the light strange, her blood glimmers up at Not-Jenna, even dry as it is.

 

She stops her forward march for just a moment, darts a look around, and then, guilty, brings the blade to her mouth to drag her tongue along the thickest smear.

 

(Ohhhh. Oh _yes._ )

 

Not-Jenna considers the rest of the blade, but shakes her head, makes herself lower the sword. Time and enough to clean it properly later on.

 

For now, the humans are waiting on her return. Feathers (oh, words are not _enough_ -) and Cat-Eyes (who she maybe wants to bite, just a little, but no, no. She pulls the glamour tighter, tells herself biting is only for the very young, or between the already-consenting. Surprise-biting is bad.) and Thirteen (who she maybe wants to bite in the more-fun way, but something else bit him first and now he’s twitchy. Inconvenient, that).

 

(She’s been away from the Else for so, so long, worn away her edges on metals only a little bit iron and on _plastics_ and against the hum of lightening wrapped in wire and hidden in walls.

 

but now she’s _back_ and she’s thrown off her glamour and _oh_ but the old hungers are _rising-_ )

 

And the Crow. The damn Crow is waiting, too.

 

Not-Jenna grumbles, decides she’s deep enough in the spider-woods, and starts whacking on strands of silk with the flat of the blade.

 

Not terribly diplomatic, no, but damn if it won’t get her noticed. And, truth be told, the day she’s actually polite to the Spider is the day he eats her for an imposter.

 

Such benefits there are, to being unaligned.

 

(Such, _such_ drawbacks, too, but the less time spent dwelling the better)

 

Webs she hasn’t struck begin to tremble, light up with peculiar vibrations, and a rhythmic, rasping _haaaaa_ echoes through the forest.

 

Not-Jenna stops mid-swing, and lets the point of the blade drop down.

 

She’s here off-season, they’ve already caused a ruckus on some landed Gentry’s property, and the Spider is aptly named: he _absolutely_ knows why she’s here.

 

‘Are you going to give me something useful, or waste my time laughing at me?’ She calls out, and the forest goes abruptly quiet.

 

‘ _Rude thing,’_ it hisses at her, and she tosses her hair. The Spider has ever been fond of her utter lack of respect, and so she rejoins,

 

‘Trite metaphor.’

 

It laughs again, and the trees groan and creak, under some great weight.

 

_‘A fine sword you bring! So brightly it gleams,’_ It says, and Not-Jenna just barely keeps the frown that wants to manifest off her face. It’s in a _rhyming_ mood.

 

_‘But what there mars, what there smears, what there halts the sheen! Surely, that which sweetly smells might be shared, would not be begrudged, even by a rude thing.’_

 

Not-Jenna takes an even breath, hums to stall.  She hates when the Spider insists on rhyming.

 

‘Indeed, ‘tis fine, this blade I carry- and yet not mine, nor time to tarry.’  Not her best, that, but unless the Spider is really insistent, it’ll let the blood thing go. Neither of them are bound by loyalty to any of the courts, but Winter manners are no strange thing.

 

_‘And yet here you linger, searching, seeking- and I see tension in you, ever tighter-! No time for gifts or games, or even flyting, yet comes you now to speak with Spider- oh, but I see! And a fine jest indeed- a Quest, has the Changeling!’_ It- well, it crows. There’s really no better word for it, Not-Jenna muses.

 

_Ugh._ But- well, it does seem interested. There’s leverage, there.  

 

‘A Quest, yes, but as I’ve said: I’m short on time. If you want to hear my story, ‘twill have to be heard absent of rhyme.’

 

Behind her and to the left, something _crraaaACKS,_ and a tree branch roughly as long as her glamoured form falls to the ground, splintered nearly to kindling. Not-Jenna makes a face.

 

‘Or hear it not- ‘twas just a thought, and no concern to me.’

 

_‘...a hard bargain, as ever, my dear. But I_ must _know, and know I shall, even if it must be by unpolished words, an assault to the ear.’_

 

Something impacts the ground; a deep, heavy _thump_ , and then again, and again- no, not _again_ , but _another._

 

Behind her, the Spider crawls down from his trees, and then skitters straight over her. In this form, if there were two of her she could not reach the Spider’s underbelly.

 

_‘Follow. We must speak, you and I.’_ It says, and then snorts, delighted. _‘Ah, I have_ waited _\- come into my parlor, says the Spider to the fly.’_

 

It leads her deeper into its forest, until the trees are just cotton-candy caricatures, and she makes herself as comfortable as she can on a less sticky patch it points out to her, and it settles into the center of its web.

 

A leg, delicately tapered to a viciously clawed end, sweeps out, invites her to speak.

 

‘There’s been a theft.’ She starts, and tells her tale: of Tuesdays, the theft of Names, the barren campus repeating the day, the library, the chemistry tale, the Crow Prince, the book. The fall Underhill into Summer, the hunt and the escape, Feathers- slipping and sliding ever closer to something _fae_ , the journey through the wilds.

 

The hope, of course, that the Spider might live up to its name, that it knows more than they do, that it might be convinced to share. There is, after all, a Quest afoot, and things are _changing._

 

It ponders, for a time, tugging at strands of its web, studying the answering vibrations, tugging and plucking and pulling again.

 

Not-Jenna sits quietly, content to rest and wait it out.

 

She dozes lightly, lulled by the rhythmic plucking, for some indeterminate span, until the Spider calls back her attention.

 

_‘Changing Indeed, Changeling. Quests and crows and thieves- better for you to leave it be. But I see you will not- oh, Changeling, you’ve changed.’_ It stops then, but she’s wise to its games. It harrumphs, finally, and continues.

 

_‘Steel your heart: set up against an Impossible Quest, your mortal finds herself, made much less Impossible by the twisting of the Else.’_

 

Not-Jenna perks up at that. Not just a Quest, but an _Impossible_ one? And the Else, twisting, to pave the way? This bodes well. This bodes _very_ well.

 

_‘No,’_ the Spider says, _‘Changeling, you misunderstand, or you would look not nearly so glad. ‘Tis the thief who was set the Quest, and by Herself the Summer Queen: asked a boon, did she, and now as many souls as her boon is worth does she seek to bring.’_

 

No. No, that- Summer doesn’t reign, not at—but they _aren’t_ at the university, are they? No, they left the rules and the protection of the school long ago, knowing well what it might mean.

 

_‘And now the Else twists,’_ the Spider sighs. _‘No lie, spoke you, of change to come, of change on the wind. Bring to me the mortal, and I will tell to it how the thief’s story begins.’_

 

_—_

 

You lead Cat-Eyes and Thirteen, picking a path through the unclaimed wilds, ever clearer and wider in Not-Jenna’s wake. Each step a little longer, a little stronger.

 

You would check that they're still following, but you don’t need to: you can feel Cat-Eyes’ gaze on you like a weight. It abates, briefly, when she says ...something, you can’t be bothered, to Thirteen, but falls again, just as heavily, just as soon as they’re done.

 

It.

 

It _grates._

 

There’s a.. hm, a tug, a _pull_ in the meat of your shoulder, a drain on your attention, and as pleased as you are with it, that little bauble within you which corrals the poison and the pain, it leaves you with precious little patience for other annoyances.

 

Like the _weight_ of Cat-Eyes’ _gaze._

 

There’s an itchy spot behind your left ear, and you reach up to scratch scratch _scratch_ and you can feel her gaze sharpening on that as well and god but it _itches_ and it _grates_ and you’ve _already warned her_ why is she _still_ _staring_.

 

It makes you want to, want to-

 

_(teach her a lesson, make her cry, make her bleed, pluck her awful seeing_ eyes _out-)_

 

You stop, suddenly, and just breathe. That. That’s wasn’t normal.

 

Cat-Eyes draws up beside you, slow and easy, but - pointedly - out of grabbing range.

 

‘You back with us yet, Crow Girl?’ She - well. She doesn’t ask. It’s a statement, meant to point out and rub in the the fact that if you _are_ back, it’s very much because you went away.

 

You have no idea why that just happened. You stare at her, open your mouth to say- what? You don’t even know.

 

(this _has_ happened before, but never so strongly, never so fast, never so deeply, necer for so long, never without fear and anger and _need_ nipping at your heels)

 

(never so _unprompted_ \- you reached for _calm,_ sank into thinking _fae_ without noticing. You wanted- wanted to be functional, and you _slipped_ -)

 

(you remember the way Not-Jenna looked at you, as you looked at her, and how that _didn’t_ grate-)

 

You shrug at her, at a loss.

 

She just nods, and then bumps her shoulder against yours. You start walking again, explicitly aware of the way she and Thirteen are watching you.

 

‘Guys?’ He asks, and his voice is a little...

 

You look at him, and- he’s drawn, with deep circles under his eyes, a slump to his shoulders, a furrow in his brows, and he’s holding his arm- the wounded one, claw marks still livid, barely healed- a little stiff, close to his body.

 

Shit.

 

‘I’m ok,’ you tell him softly, and when he drifts a little closer you sway, let your arm brush his. He immediately crowds that much closer, and your arms bump with every step.

 

Cat-Eyes swings around so she’s walking on his other side, and tells him,

 

‘Our Feathers here is a little more Involved than we are. Means she goes strange, sometimes. I’ve seen it before.’ She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you’re pretty sure Thirteen can tell that for a lie just as well as you can.

 

‘That’s all?’ He asks anyway, bookended between the two of you.

 

Cat-Eyes waffles for a long moment, then sighs.

 

‘That’s all it takes,’ she says.

 

Thirteen looks from you to her and back, and then asks, ‘Is that gonna happen to me, too?’

 

Cat-Eyes says ‘No,’ at the same time you say ‘Maybe.’

 

Cat-Eyes raises an eyebrow at you, and Thirteen still just looks concerned.

 

You sigh, and elaborate.

 

‘ _Probably_ it won’t, and if you do start going strange, it won’t be like I do. I’m. I’m involved. More involved than a lot of people.’ You hold up you left wrist, rattle the pearls there.

 

‘I’m a legacy, several generations over. I’ve been to solstice revels, I’ve stayed over for the summer semesters, I have sung at a Prince’s bidding, bargained whole nights of memories away and exchanged them for tangible tokens of _boons_ , of _favors,_ to be called in at mine own discretion. My closest companion: a changeling fae! Last I saw my family, they recognized me by the pearls around my neck- for they could not see the _me_ in the features of my face. I am called Feathers, and Crow Girl, and to those Gentry of the Courts who know to name me I am called _Girl Who Sings to Crows_ , and I—!’

  


You’re doing it again, is what you are. You take a breath, lower your arm from where you’ve held it, brandished, for Thirteen to see.  

 

‘And I’m probably never going to leave the university. I know that. I’ve known it for a while now. The crows have a claim, and it’s a claim I haven’t exactly struggled against. But like _fuck,’_ you say, ‘Is anyone but _me_ going to have my _Name!’_

 

_Hello fear and anger,_ there _you are,_ You think, and then stuff the feelings back down before you start slavering for the blood of your enemies, or something like that.

 

‘I— point is, we have very different circumstances. Maybe you’ll go strange, maybe you’ll change, but you’ve gone Underhill. Some change is to be expected. Doesn’t mean you have to change _strange.’_ You finish, and Cat-Eyes mutters agreement.

 

Thirteen doesn’t exactly look comforted, but he’s still bracketed between you and Cat-Eyes, and he isn’t pulling away. Cat-Eyes stares until you meet her eyes, and then pointedly looks away, ducks her head to you the smallest bit.

 

It settles that last riled bit in you, and you nod back, turn your attention once more forward; who knows how long until Not-Jenna returns. Lovely woods and miles to go and all that.

 

(deep inside you, behind your crow-thrilled heart, you feel something crack, snap- not in _two_ , not as though _broken_ , but. But.)

 

( _Self scored lines upon my soul_ , you think, press a hand upon your chest.

_Words have weight, here,_ you think.)

 

( _None but I shall have my Name,_ you’d said. _you_ , who cannot _remember_ your Name.)

  
  


(No, not broken, not in two, but... Mm. cracks and snaps all the same.)

  
  


_(rattle-rattle-rattle)_


End file.
